


Fearful Symmetry / World Without End / Attached

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, Family, Forgiveness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of nightmares, family, and forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fearful Symmetry

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in November 2010.

John woke with a shudder: panting hard, sweating bullets. He leaned back against the headboard, recovering his breath, his eyes instinctively flicking over to the curtained window. Daylight. He glanced at his clock, feeling his heart-rate come down a few notches and settle. 8:23 AM. John hadn't overslept. He closed his eyes and sighed.

He didn't dream of Afghanistan anymore.

Two months since Moriarty. Since they'd failed to die spectacularly in a shower of pool-tile shrapnel. John had escaped with bruises and a bullet-graze to the arm. Sherlock had walked away with three broken ribs and bruises brighter than John's. 

_Both_ of them had walked away, stunned and sopping wet.

 

_No sooner has Sherlock pulled the trigger than John is already in action._

_He hits Sherlock side-on, catching the man's ribcage in a crushing hold. They're in free-fall for only a few seconds, and then there's the impact of the water, stinging blue in John's eyes and a muted ringing in his ears. He wonders if it's the explosion. He's clinging to Sherlock so tightly he ought to be ashamed, but it doesn't matter, because Sherlock is wrapped around him as if there's nothing left in the world for him above water. They're chest to chest, legs tangled. Drifting, rising. John thinks that if they're to die like this, together at the last, it's fine. He's fine. They're both―_

_They break the surface and find clear air pierced by Moriarty's laughter._

_"Oh, I had it **all** wrong," he crows, bending down to peer at them, hands braced on his thighs. "You haven't just shown your hand. You've turned out your pockets, and unlike our friend Sherlock here, you're packing more than just a gun. Am I right?" He smirks at them, a frog-face uncannily well suited to the circumstances._

_John spits a mouthful of chlorine in Moriarty's direction, and a curious thing happens. Instead of letting go of Sherlock, which he's sure any sane person would have done, he tightens his fingers where they're fisted in Sherlock's sodden jacket. Sherlock is frozen, but he doesn't let go of John, either. Strange, to feel him so close._

_"You don't know me," John manages, voice low, lethal. "You don't know_ us _."_

_And then, an even more curious thing happens: Sherlock pulls him in tighter._

_"Fake explosives," he says, in the dead tone that tells John he's furious at himself for having missed that one vital, game-changing detail. "What kind of complete idiot―"_

_Sherlock falls quiet as Moriarty draws a gun and points it straight at John's forehead._

_"No more talking," he says. "Daddy's tired. Now, if you'll just stay where you are so I can enjoy this touching scene for a little bit longer, we'll all be on our way very soon."_

_"You're not going to let us go," Sherlock mutters under his breath. "What's the point?"_

_There's a single gunshot, and John's upper right arm is on fire._

_"Boys!" Moriarty shouts, neatly tucking the gun back inside his jacket. "Out!"_

_And they're gone again, just like that. And John is blinking dazedly at his arm and at the cloud of red spreading slowly in the water, and Sherlock―_

_Sherlock is shaking, drawing great, gasping breaths against John's hair._

_It's John who finally gathers his wits enough to get them out of the water. At a brief assessment, the bullet has only grazed his arm, but the wound is still going to need stitches. He tells Sherlock they ought to find a hospital, check themselves into A &E. Sherlock shakes his head vehemently, absorbed in examining John's arm._

_"I can get us into Bart's after hours. I'm more than capable of stitching this."_

_John nods. It's a dubious plan, but Sherlock's thinking clearly again, and he's too relieved to resist. They detach the ridiculous hooded coat from the fake explosives and wrap John in it, hoping it'll hide the worst of the blood. There's no disguising the fact that they're soaked. It takes them three attempts to locate a cab that's willing to drive them to Bart's, and even then, they pay a double fare._

_Sherlock does a better job on the stitches than John could have done on himself. It's while they're toweling their soaked clothing in the low light of an empty staff locker room that John notices how stiffly Sherlock is moving, how labored his breathing._

_"Take off your jacket," John says. "There's something wrong with your chest."_

_Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds, blankly, before complying._

_John places careful palms against Sherlock's ribcage, moves them downward. Sherlock draws in a taut breath, his eyes fixed on the floor. His shirt is in the way, the fabric too heavy and too wet. Without asking permission, John tugs it free of his trousers and undoes Sherlock's buttons. By the time he reaches Sherlock's collar, Sherlock is wearing an expression so fiercely unreadable that John can't help the tremor in his left hand as his fingers gently prod at Sherlock's bare, bruised flesh._

_"Broken," he says, indicating the fourth rib down on the left-hand side. "These two as well," he adds, placing his index and middle fingers on the right-hand-side sixth and seventh. "That'll be my fault. When I grabbed you. I'm sorry."_

_Sherlock lowers his eyes again, shakes his head as if it's of no consequence._

_"You saved my life. Or, rather, you thought you were saving it._ I _thought―"_

_"Button up," says John, swiftly withdrawing his hands. "You'll catch a chill."_

_Sherlock does as he's told, but he looks as if he's lost something._

 

John got up reluctantly, pulling on his t-shirt. Summer in London that year was proving every bit as unforgiving as winter had been. Unusual, for early June to prove so cruel.

Suddenly, he remembered what day it was.

Sherlock was already in the kitchen when he wandered in, running an experiment and making toast all at once. He'd gotten better at multi-tasking, John couldn't deny that. There were already two cups of tea on the table. John sat down and took hold of one of them. It was more or less cold. He decided to drink it anyway.

"Did we forget to make plans?" Sherlock asked, his back still turned.

John blinked at the back of his head. "Plans to do what?"

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock said, turning around with a plate of toast and one hand and a pipette in the other. "You're thirty-eight today," he added, leaning to set the plate in front of John. "Surely you consider that some kind of achievement. I'm not in the habit of celebrating birthdays, but for you, I might make an exception."

"I appreciate it, Sherlock, but I'd better ring Harry and tell her I'll be late."

Sherlock turned again, staring, eyebrows high enough to hit the ceiling.

"Given the choice, why on earth would you spend your birthday with your sister?"

John took another sip of tea. "Because it's her birthday, too."

Sherlock threw the pipette down, lips twisting in familiar disgust.

" _Twins_. I overlooked the writing on the wall. It _definitely_ had it coming."

"I never mentioned it. How could you have missed something I never said?"

"It explains a lot more about the situation," Sherlock sighed, plucking his own burnt toast onto a plate and joining John at the table. "A lot more that I should have picked up on. You're far too bitter for this to have been a standard falling-out. Twins, even fraternal ones, normally share a bond above and beyond that shared by normal sets of siblings. The closer the parties involved, the more painful the estrangement."

"She emailed me two weeks ago to make plans for today. I think that's a start."

"Go," Sherlock said around a mouthful of toast. "We'll have dinner instead."

John tensed, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Er, Sarah―"

"Will want to see you, of course, although heaven knows _why_ , given there's nothing to be had in the association for either of you. I'll wait. There's always tomorrow."

"She's my friend, Sherlock," John said. "I enjoy her company, and she enjoys mine."

"You might bring her around now and again. She's proved herself not entirely useless."

"No more cases," John said. "Not allowed to discuss them. She doesn't want to know."

"Not even why you turned up twenty-four hours late with stitches in your arm?"

John dropped the crust of his toast on the plate. "Actually, that's when she put her foot down. That's also when my chances of getting any, _ever_ again, went out the window."

Sherlock glared into his teacup. "Are you really so single-minded, John?"

"No," John snapped. "But it's bloody annoying, the sacrifices I've had to make."

Two months since Moriarty. It hung in the silence between them.

"You'd better be finished," said Sherlock, clearing his own dishes. "I need the table."

"I'm off out," John replied, rising. "So, what is it―dinner tomorrow?"

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, tapping some powder into a test tube.

As he left, John couldn't help but wonder if _he_ was the one who'd lost something.

* * *

There, in front of the coffee shop, squinting into the sun, Harry was waiting for him.

 _Lovely_ , John thought, waving from his vantage point across the street. _How is it that she's always lovely, drunk or sober or otherwise?_ The light was still red, and John didn't want it to change―not yet. He wanted an excuse to stand there and look at her from a distance, to hold her as a perfect image of what she _should_ be. 

She'd never been tall for her age, either, always precisely half an inch shorter than John. She'd caught him up in the end, making them both an even five feet, eight inches. He liked to think that she wore heels just to spite him. Dark hair, darker than John's: as dark as Sherlock's, in fact. Their eyes were the same, though, entirely too easy to read in spite of being a dull, murky blue. John had seen her eyes soft and kind. He'd also seen them crazed and bloodshot. He preferred not to remember.

The light turned green. Impatiently, Harry waved at him. 

The crossing was over in the blink of an eye, of her eyes, of _theirs_. 

She was in John's arms before he knew it. John placed one hand between her shoulder blades and stroked her hair with the other, turning his head to kiss her cheek. Curse her for being so beautiful, for resembling their handsome father as much as John resembled their unremarkable mother. For her ability to charm anyone she'd ever wanted. For the fact that, before she'd started drinking, she'd defended her convictions with clear-headed grace and unshakeable poise (even when it had broken them).

"John," Harry said, leaning back for a look at him, cracking a helpless smile as she wiped a tear out of the corner of her eye. "Hi there. You look like hell."

"Looking well yourself," John replied, grinning back at her with trepidation. It was true, though, that she looked far better than she had when she'd collected him at the airport in January. The divorce proceedings had begun around then, and she'd been hitting the gin even harder than when John had first left for duty. "Tea?"

" _Please_ ," Harry groaned, leading him inside. "I haven't eaten. It's hard for me to keep anything down before about noon, unless it's― _well_. You know how that's going."

Yes, he did know. She'd mentioned in her email that she was attending her support group again, and that she'd got herself to the point where, as long as she could make it through the morning without a drink, the rest of the day came easier. They took a table near the back with low, plush armchairs and a white carnation in a vase.

"You've lost weight," John chided. "You were always too small as it is. Bit not good."

Harry eyed him from waist to forehead critically, her lips tight.

"I hardly recognized you when you stepped off that plane."

 _Because of how much I've changed, or because you were trollied?_ John wanted to ask, but instead, he said, "Some time spent in hospital will do that to you."

"Rehab will do it to you, too," replied Harry, wryly. "Hey, I'm eight stone now!"

"You need to gain a stone back," John insisted. "What're you having?"

"Earl Grey and a scone. John, I'll get it. Your leg must be knackered."

John stood up. "No more cane, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Drop the big damn hero act," said Harry, "and let me buy you a coffee."

"Tea," John reminded her, resuming his seat. "Black. Nothing fancy."

"I'll give you fancy," she groused, and went to place the order.

John closed his eyes, resting his forehead against his hands. He could scarcely believe this was happening. It was almost like they were teenagers again, in that fragile, fantastic space between school and uni where anything was possible. Harry had always been ambitious: she'd wanted to become a solicitor, but she'd ended up in business and landed an enviably profitable career in real estate. Even if he'd gone to her, he wouldn't have been able to afford any of the properties listed by her agency.

"So," she said, returning with a plate in one hand and two full mugs dangling precariously from the other, "I've seen you in the background of no fewer than three BBC news clips in as many months. Mind telling me what's up with this flatmate of yours? I can already see he's a bad influence. You're eating no better than I am."

"He's a consulting detective," John sighed. "I help him solve cases, if you like."

"I've read his website," she said, settling back into her seat. "He's a real prick."

"Yes, I know that, thank you," John snapped. "Your comments are appreciated."

"Your blog's halfway interesting, at least," Harry admitted. "Not lately, though. You haven't posted since April. Sherlock isn't updating his website, either."

 _Sherlock_. Surreal, to hear Harry call him by name. "Cases have been thin on the ground," John admitted. "We're on the outs with Scotland Yard."

"John, I sincerely _hope_ you're not getting any more involved in police affairs than you already have. I worry. If Mum and Dad were here, they'd be worried, too."

"Thank God they're not," John said. "Wouldn't want them to see this. Any of it."

Harry didn't have to ask him what he meant. 

She sipped her tea in silence for a while, and then, without warning, pulled her ridiculous handbag into her lap and fished around in it. She pulled out a large card with a small, ominously heavy gift-wrapped rectangle attached to it.

"Happy Birthday," she said.

John unwrapped the rectangle first, fairly certain she wouldn't be offended if he kept the card till later. He stared at the gadget in his hands for about thirty seconds, turning it over and over. An iPhone. _Christ_. Could she be any less imaginative?

“Great. Now I'll never see my mobile. Sherlock won't be able to keep his hands off it."

"I was hoping," said Harry, tentatively, "I might have my old one back."

 _Ah_. There it was: the confession, the sneaky underlying motivation.

"Don't see why not," John told her, removing it from his pocket and sliding it across the table. "I get funny looks when people notice the inscription anyway. Also, people tend to think you're my brother. Sherlock certainly did."

"They thought that anyway," she said, tucking the phone away quickly. "Back when I cut my hair during uni. I'm glad I let it grow back. Short never suited me."

"Yeah, you and the rest of the newly burgeoning dyke brigade," John said. He'd meant it amiably enough, but he could see right away that part of Harry still took the whole laughable '80s rebellion thing quite seriously. For some, it had just been a phase. For others, like Harry, it had meant significant self-discovery.

"Have you ever wondered where your life's heading?" Harry asked him.

John shrugged at her. "In what sense?"

"You're almost forty," she said. "You have trouble forming meaningful attachments."

There it was: the return slap in the face. _Touché_.

"There's this woman I met at work, Sarah―"

Harry nodded, eyeing him with pity. "Comments on your blog like a hopeless groupie. Won't commit to anything, though, because Sherlock scares the fuck out of her."

"He scares the fuck out of everybody. What's your point?"

"Not you," Harry said, laughing bitterly. "You're not afraid of _anything_."

"I'm afraid you'll drink yourself into an early grave," he told her. "There, I've said it."

"She's not your girlfriend. Don't pretend for my sake that she is."

"I suppose the fact that you've been in the world for ten seconds longer than I have gives you a leg up on the whole wisdom thing. Why'd you want your phone back?"

"You know why," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "I don't have to _tell_ you why."

"You're still fighting the divorce," John said. "Stubborn."

"I screwed up when I slept with Charles," she said softly. "John, I know that."

"I suppose you still love her. It's good to hear you say that sober."

"We're talking again. Making progress, even, I think. It's all for her."

John buried his face in his hands. The same, always the same: selfless, but stupid.

"Oh, Harry, no. It's got to be for you. _You've_ got to want it first."

"I want it," she insisted, breaking her scone in half. "If it'll win her back―"

"You've got to win her back," John said. " _You_. Not just the absence of booze."

"She thinks I'm indecisive," Harry murmured. "But I'm _not_. Charles could've just as easily been another woman. Oh, don't you dare look at me like that. _Don't_. I could slap you. There's so much you don't know about―" She cut herself off, regarding him with pity. It had always been unnerving, the sense that she knew something he didn't.

"Then slap me," John said, leaning forward. "Tell me what I don't know."

Harry mopped at her running mascara with a napkin, still scrutinizing him.

"No," she said, sniffling. "I think you've got to find that out for yourself."

* * *

John worked his four-hour afternoon shift beneath an impending sense of dread. He'd managed to calm Harry down again, but as soon as she'd finished eating her scone, she'd cut their meeting short, citing a string of property viewings she needed to conduct before the day was out. No wonder she'd been so impeccably dressed.

Sarah popped her head into John's office at five, asking if he was ready to go.

"How was it?" she asked later, coaxing an untidy clump of fried rice into her mouth. She was awkward with chopsticks, nothing like Sherlock's unbelievable dexterity.

"I'd call it a minor disaster," John said, idly flipping channels until he landed on something mindless enough for background noise. "We got off to a great start. I could almost believe I was talking to Harry as she was twenty years ago, but then she gave me an iPhone and asked for her old one back. It all went downhill from there."

"Because you pried," said Sarah, knowingly. "You had to bring up Clara."

John spread his hands, exasperated. "What am I supposed to do, ignore the fact that she just can't accept the goddamned divorce and get on with her life? She's a recovering alcoholic. The last thing she needs is one more reason _to_ drink."

"What kind of influence was Clara? How was Harry, as long as they were together?"

"Harry seemed fine up until she decided to cheat on her wife."

"There's no call for sarcasm," Sarah said. "Was Clara good for her?"

John closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. 

"Yes, very good for her. They were perfect. It would've made you sick."

"Did it make _you_ sick?" Sarah asked, her tone too pitying for John's liking.

"Kind of," John sighed. "I found Clara attractive, but I never thought I had a chance."

"You're not very subtle when you find someone attractive. I should know."

"Thank God that's behind us, then," John said. "Wait, I didn't mean you're not―"

Sarah smiled at him and patted his shoulder. "Stop while you're ahead."

"Anyway, she left before I could give her the card I'd bought."

"Send it in the post," Sarah said, dropping a dumpling several times before she got hold of it. "Most people appreciate occasionally getting mail that isn't electronic."

"Harry lets her mail go unopened for weeks," John said.

" _Hmmm_." Sarah ate the dumpling, and then changed the subject. "How's Sherlock?"

"He's bored," John sighed. "We haven't had a case in over a month. He's been pinning moths to the walls and conducting experiments involving toxic chemicals over breakfast. I've hidden my gun. Again. The damages from last time were expensive."

Sarah started to laugh. She pressed a napkin to her mouth until the fit passed.

"You two should have your own reality show," she coughed. "Think of the ratings."

"I'd rather not. Sherlock _is_ the type of genius who thrives on an audience."

"I would've thought you'd be going out tonight," Sarah replied.

"What?"

"With Sherlock."

John contemplated his sweet and sour chicken. He'd lost his appetite.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Sherlock's busy this evening."

"I thought you said he didn't have any cases?"

"Moths," John reminded her, too distracted to say anything else. Sherlock had _wanted_ to go out with him, and, as it turned out, Sarah would have been all right with that.

"Right," she said, coaxing the remote control out of John's hand.

* * *

Sherlock straggled in at ten minutes till midnight carrying a parcel wrapped in what looked like multiple biohazard bin liners. That in and of itself was rarely a good sign, as it meant that whatever was in said parcel was likely to drip blood all over.

"No," John said, shutting his book. " _Absolutely not_. Take it right back to Bart's."

Sherlock kicked carelessly out of his shoes, unbuttoning his coat one-handed.

"What, this?" he asked, holding up the parcel with the other. "On what grounds?"

"It's probably some poor sod's liver," John said. "Or lung. I don't even want to know."

"Just like Sarah," Sherlock sneered, walking straight over and dropping the parcel in John's lap. "Happy Birthday. Next time, you may want to think before you speak."

John opened his mouth, then shut it again. He noted as he unraveled the wrapping that there were fine droplets of water all over the plastic. Briefly, he closed his eyes. It had been raining. Sherlock had only wanted to keep it dry, whatever it was, although he knew Bart's bin liners when he saw them, ergo: Sherlock _had_ been at Bart's.

It was a large, black leather-bound ledger with gilt edges and unlined pages made of cream-colored paper so heavy that folding it would actually take considerable effort.

"The blog's not working for you," Sherlock informed him, tossing his damp coat over the nearest chair. "I thought you might try doing it the old-fashioned way. There's less risk of anyone from the Yard or our respective families actually reading it."

John sighed, flipping through the pages. It smelled amazing.

"Thank you," he said instead. "And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed―"

"Of course you should have," Sherlock said, taking a seat beside him on the sofa. "You had deduced, correctly, that Bart's was one of my stops this evening."

"The other was in Bond Street, by the look of it. How much did you pay for this?"

"Not telling," Sherlock said, and that's when he noticed John's iPhone on the cushion between them. He snatched it up and made short work of ticking through a few screens, eyes wide with pleased satisfaction. "Can I borrow this?"

"For what?" John asked, snatching it away from him.

"Harry's taken her phone back, I see. She and Clara must be on the mend."

"They're discussing it," John said. "Harry's back on the straight and narrow. For now."

"Your meeting wasn't _all_ bad," Sherlock said. "Although you're carrying tension in your shoulders, which means that dinner with Sarah wasn't relaxing, either."

"Apparently she wouldn't have minded if I'd canceled on her and gone out with you," offered John, for no reason other than that he felt inescapably guilty. What was it Harry had said about his inability to form meaningful attachments? For once, he realized, he'd gone and formed one. Trouble was, it happened to be with Sherlock. 

"Intriguing," Sherlock said, his lips quirking into something like a smile. "Dinner?"

"Sherlock, I'm stuffed. And, now that you're home safely, I'm contemplating bed."

"Frozen chips it is," Sherlock said, launching himself off the sofa. He paused in the kitchen doorway, glancing back over his shoulder at John. "Dinner _tomorrow_?"

Damn and blast it, but Sherlock wasn't going to let the matter drop.

"Fine," John said, rising with a yawn. "Dinner tomorrow. As if it weren't bad enough that I let you and Harry spoil me with gifts worth more than my monthly salary."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," said Sherlock's voice from the the kitchen. "You're only part-time. For which I'm grateful. I couldn't do with you spending thirty-seven and a half hours of your week diagnosing hangovers and prodding at nappy rash."

Unexpected, that Sherlock should wax sentimental. John's chest felt tight.

"Good night, Sherlock," he said, and left the room.

* * *

_Hey, kid brother. J/K. How's the iPhone_  
working out for you? Call me soon. - H.

 

John blinked at Harry's text message, rubbing his eyes. It was almost ten in the morning, meaning that Sherlock was probably dead to the world, too. Otherwise, he'd have been up and about, making enough noise to wake John. He yawned, typing.

 

_Prefer to text. What's up?_

 

_Nothing. Just want to see more of you._

 

_Guess that can be arranged. How often?_

 

_Once a week, maybe. Is that okay?_

 

John sighed. Inasmuch as his influence might help, it might also hurt.

 

_Sure. Same time, same place every week?_

 

_No, that's what therapists do. Let's mix it up._

 

_Okay, then, when/where next?_

 

_Next week. Your place. I want to meet Sherlock._

 

John dropped the phone on the floor and buried his face in the pillow. He should've been expecting this, Harry wanting to nose into every corner of his life. Things had been like that between them before, and she seemed to see no reason why they shouldn't be again. John, on the other hand, could think of several reasons. He retrieved the phone and chewed on his lip for a few seconds before responding.

 

_Yeah, all right. Let me talk it over with  
Sherlock, and then I'll get back to you._

 

_You're a star. Later. - H._

 

John grimaced, got dressed, and dragged himself downstairs. Sherlock was out cold on the sofa, his half-eaten plate of chips partially scattered across the coffee table. He must've been lying there thinking, reaching over every once and a while to snag a chip, sometimes knocking a few off. John took hold of one slender wrist and turned Sherlock's arm over. Four patches lined up in a neat, continuous row. John frowned, yanking the one nearest to the crook of Sherlock's elbow off, never mind the fact that Sherlock woke up instantly, exposing the start of an ugly, greenish track mark.

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ ―"

"It's not what you think," said Sherlock. "Well, no, it _is_ what you think, but what I mean to say is, it's not―" he frowned "―like before. I just needed something to leave lying about. It's been entirely too long since I've tempted a drugs bust."

John gaped at him, incredulous. "And you would _want_ this because―?"

"Because I'm bored," Sherlock said, swinging his legs off the sofa and the rest of himself into a sitting position. He hadn't even bothered to take any of his clothes off. "I hate it when Lestrade won't come out to play, and I _almost_ miss Donovan."

"I can think of better ways of getting him to come out than shooting up and _waiting_ for him to notice that you've been up to no good," John said, sitting down beside him. He pulled the next two patches off, gingerly fingering the bruising where it continued down Sherlock's arm. "Did you do this last night, or was it before you got home?"

"Last night," snapped Sherlock, irritably, pulling off the last patch by himself. "Pay attention. I said I needed something to leave lying about."

"Well, where did you leave it?" John asked. "I'm going to bin the evidence."

" _I'll_ do it," Sherlock sighed. "John, really. I'm not a child."

"You'd never know," John muttered. "Harry wants to come here next week."

"Why? She'd find this place ghastly."

"She wants to meet you."

Sherlock shrugged, his expression suggesting that he might be amenable.

"I wouldn't mind meeting the woman who seems to be my blind spot."

"Fine, then, that's sorted," John said, pulling the iPhone out of his pocket. _Amazingly, Sherlock thinks your coming here is a good idea_. "Er, wait―what day?"

"Any," Sherlock said. "Bored, remember?"

 _Monday_ , John typed. _Bring beer_ , he added, reflexively, catching himself only just in time, deleting the phrase with a sense of vague horror. Oh, God, if he'd sent that.

"I sense that borrowing your phone will no longer be an option," Sherlock said, standing, peering easily over John's shoulder. "I should warn you that this means I will require you to quit your job effective immediately."

"Is that so?" John asked, sending just _Monday_. "Why?"

"Because I'll need you to send texts _for_ me, surely you know that by now."

"You have your own bloody phone! And as for the issue of your number being on the website, get a new number! Or, failing that, take it off the website."

"That would be inconvenient. It takes me forever to memorize new ones."

"You memorized mine inside half an hour."

"Expediency. Do you want breakfast, or are we going to argue all day?"

"Is that an invitation to go out, or do you honestly expect me to navigate the mine-field you're in the process of constructing in there right now?"

"Good point," Sherlock said. "It's an invitation to go out."

"You need a shower," John pointed out. "So do I, probably."

Sherlock shook out his hair, plucking at it absently. "No, I don't." He leaned over and sniffed at John's hair, his neck, and the vicinity of his armpit. Sherlock's breath ghosted across his cheek in the process, making John shiver. "You don't, either. Your hair's sticking up a bit in the back, though."

"For the record, I hate you," John said, and stalked off to the bathroom.

John took Sherlock to the coffee shop where he'd met Harry, partly because he was feeling sadistic and partly because he'd genuinely liked the atmosphere. Once they were seated, Sherlock spent fifteen minutes picking the berries out of his scone.

"Harry dragged you here," he said, popping a piece of mangled scone into his mouth.

"Yes, she did," John agreed, sipping his English Breakfast. "Quiet sort of place."

Sherlock laughed, low and knowing. "Not with the two of you in it."

"No, we―" John cut himself short, shook his head. "Now that you mention it, yes."

"You argued about her reasons for being back on the straight and narrow."

"She's hard-pressed to do anything for her own sake," John said.

"She's suffered for your absence," Sherlock observed, wrapping both hands around his mug. "The difficulty between you isn't just your disapproval of her alcoholism. She never forgave you for enlisting in the military, and when you were deployed to Afghanistan, that was the last straw, wasn't it?"

John screwed his eyes shut. "I didn't hear from her, Sherlock. Not once while I was over there. She's my only surviving family member, aside from a handful of uncles, aunts, and cousins who mostly can't stand us. As you can imagine, it hurt―wait, no, what am I saying. You can't _possibly_ imagine it."

Sherlock fixed him with a curiously patient look.

"On the contrary, I can," he said. "Your distress is sufficient evidence."

"It's not evidence, Sherlock," John said, almost shouting. "It's _distress_."

Sherlock glanced around at the few heads that had turned in their direction, flashing a reassuring look in the direction of the startled baristas. Goddamn his ability to _pretend_ he was normal. He placed one hand over John's, but whether it was for John's benefit or their audience's, it was difficult to tell. It was also genuinely soothing.

"You'll have to forgive her sooner or later," Sherlock said. "She hasn't been herself."

"No, Sherlock, that's the problem," John sighed. "In this, she's been too _much_ herself. She didn't approve of me enlisting, and she doesn't approve of these wars, either."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "No more than I do, granted."

"Yes, but you don't make me feel like some kind of criminal."

"That's because you're not," said Sherlock, reasonably, giving the back of John's hand one brisk pat before withdrawing his own. "Under these circumstances, however, I must urge you not to hold a grudge. Your sister is unstable."

John shook his head. "So am I."

"You left with your life," Sherlock said. "Until recently, she's had few reasons _to_ live."

John opened his mouth to protest, furious, but Sherlock cut him off.

"First, she had to watch her only living immediate family member leave for a grueling stint in harm's way. Then, perhaps as an attempt at self-distraction that didn't involve alcohol, she made a mistake that destroyed her marriage."

"I think," John said, "that you two are either going to love or hate each other."

"I rarely love anyone," Sherlock said, polishing off the rest of his scone. "Since I've got nothing on, as you're so fond of pointing out, shall we just make a day of it?"

John blinked. "A day of what? Analyzing my family's emotional problems?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Of London. You, me. Wandering about. Lunch. Dinner."

John couldn't help but grin at the awkward earnestness of it.

"Sure," he said. "I'd like that. Very much."

As it happened, Sherlock's idea of aimlessly wandering about wasn't that different from being on the case. They saw more of back alleys than of main thoroughfares, although Sherlock _did_ concede every once in a while that they ought to walk down the pavement like normal people so as not to attract the attention of any law enforcement. It was during one such stretch that John managed to lead them through the crosswalk at St. James's Park tube station and into the park itself.

"Unfair," Sherlock muttered, scowling at a snogging couple. "Now we'll have to walk the whole way through. Unless I just turn around and go back the way we came."

"Don't even think of it," John said, taking hold of Sherlock's hand before it could even occur to him that such an action in public might be a bad idea. "We're going to walk the whole way through. Maybe stop and say hello to the ducks."

"I'd rather watch the pelicans," Sherlock said, his hand in John's going from stiff to pliant in less than a second. "They eat the ducklings. And _try_ to eat small children."

"Whatever it takes." John loosened his grasp on Sherlock's hand, ready to let it fall.

But Sherlock held his hand fast. A pair of girls smiled at them.

John squeezed his eyes shut, sighed, and opened them again. _Strangers_ , he told himself. _No harm in it_. Sherlock's habitually quick gait had even slowed a bit.

Mycroft was waiting on the bridge as if he'd known they were coming, idly tossing bread to the waterfowl. Anthea was leaning on the railing, calmly engrossed in her BlackBerry. John wondered if she had a life that wasn't contained in the tiny screen.

"About that happy announcement, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked without looking up.

"Don't you have a diet to botch?" Sherlock asked, his hand still firmly wrapped around John's. "Surely you needn't inflict your leftovers on those poor creatures."

"He's doing well," Anthea volunteered, not bothering to look at them, either.

"Wonderful," John said, steeling himself, resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be getting his hand back, try though he might. Sherlock's sense of contrariness would never permit it, not now. "And what announcement might that be?"

Mycroft finally raised his head and smiled at them, too benign to be trusted.

"Merely that you and your sister have begun to close the rift. How _is_ dear Harriet?"

"She's coming to ours on Monday," Sherlock said, taunting. "You're not invited."

"Nor should I be. You oughtn't bombard her with too many shocks in one go."

"Rest assured," Sherlock said, "that the violin is a pleasure I reserve solely for you."

"She's not made of glass," said John, unexpectedly defensive. "She'll cope."

Sherlock gave him a look, eyes slightly narrowed, as if to say, _Don't encourage him_.

"Coping," Mycroft said, dusting the crumbs off his hands, "is an admirable goal."

John managed to contain his urge to flinch. "It'll be fine."

"As long as alcohol remains clear of the equation," Mycroft said, "I should hope so."

John clenched his fingers around Sherlock's hand in abject frustration. 

Sherlock's thumb stroked John's wrist, his second startling gesture in as many hours.

"What _don't_ you know about me and mine?" he demanded.

"The color of your knickers," Anthea suggested, only halfway teasing.

" _I_ could tell you that," volunteered Sherlock, sneering, "but I won't."

"Today?" Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. "Tartan. Dr. Watson, the question isn't what I don't know about you and yours, but what I don't know about _mine_."

John sighed and shook his head. "And the answer would be?"

"Very little," Mycroft said. "Have a pleasant afternoon. _Do_ try to keep the parties that need adding to my surveillance to a minimum. Anthea says it's getting out of hand."

John grinned as Sherlock gave her a withering look.

She looked up and smiled at him: that same pitying smile she gave everyone.

* * *

"I could've done without that," John sighed, rubbing his eyes. The menu blurred.

"Without what?" Sherlock asked, his calm poise and abandoned menu suggesting that he'd already made his choice. "That panini you had for lunch was perfectly serviceable, as lunch on the fly goes, and I need not tell you how dull I found your insistence upon poking into every one of those used bookshops in Cecil Court."

"True, but at least I found Harry a birthday gift," John said. The Kandinsky lithograph had set him back five hundred quid in a rare prints shop at one end of the street, but given how much Harry had spent on the iPhone, it was only fair. She loved modern art. Her walls were appallingly adorned, and now, they'd be even worse. The heavily bubble-wrapped parcel was propped between the leg of his chair and the wainscot.

"Let me reimburse you for half," Sherlock suggested. "Your salary doesn't permit for such luxuries, and she is, after all, to be a guest in our home. What's more, I helped you select it. She'll know that. Your taste in art is wanting."

"No," John said. "I'm having the scallop and squid-ink angel hair. You?"

Sherlock was still thoroughly mortified that John had dragged him into Jamie's Italian.

"The bolognese will suffice," he said thinly. "Surely _that's_ impossible to ruin."

"It's got _breadcrumbs_ on," John warned him. "Are you ready for that?"

Ignoring him, Sherlock waved down the nearest harried-looking waitress and placed their orders. She'd jilted another table in favor of Sherlock's imitation of a winning smile. Her manager would probably bawl her out for it. For now, she was glowing.

"I don't know how you do it," John said once she was gone, folding his arms.

"Do what? There are a myriad things I do that seem incomprehensible to the average mind, although I had hoped by now that I might move you out of that category."

"Charm hapless young women and never lose a moment's sleep over the hearts you break." _Convince people you're normal_ , John wanted to say, but somehow, after the day they'd had, hurting Sherlock wasn't high on his list of priorities. It _was_ possible to wound him, and John knew this not least because he'd done it often enough.

Sherlock shrugged without really moving. "It's symbiotic, if you think about it. I need to accomplish something in a hurry; they're generally neglected and could do with a confidence-booster. I've _noticed_ them. Paid them some attention, however insincere, without malicious intent. Or at least I should _hope_ it's not malicious. I'm not in the habit of turning around and mocking them, am I?"

John thought about that for a second. "No, all right, but―it's still not on."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "You seem to think leading Sarah around by the nose when nothing's ever going to come of it is, as you say, _on_."

"It's not the same thing!" John protested. "The moment passed. Something might've come of it, once, but now―look, I've _explained_ this. We're friends. I'm allowed to have friends besides you, aren't I? I can't live on crime scenes and car chases alone."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, flashing the waitress another smile as she delivered their drinks. "Friends? I was under the impression you considered us colleagues."

There: second verbal slap of the week, and perfectly warranted, too. Sherlock's voice carried an undertone of bitterness that was stunning in its delicate complexity.

"I'm sorry," John said at length, unable to meet Sherlock's expectant gaze. "I was frustrated with you. We were in no small amount of financial trouble, and you were being contrary. Which is all you ever are, by the way."

"Not true," said Sherlock. "There's been lately." He paused. "There's been today."

John looked up, and his breath stuttered at what he saw: Sherlock, genuinely contrite.

Two months since Moriarty. Damn him for raising the stakes, damn him to _hell_.

"Why do you think of it so often?" Sherlock asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Because it won't leave me," John admitted. "Because I dream of it."

"Every night?" Sherlock asked. "And the war―?"

"No," John said, wondering if he had the stomach for the mountain of strange blue-black pasta that had just been placed in front of him. "Not anymore. And yes, nearly."

Sherlock scraped a few breadcrumbs to one side, and then gave up.

"Shall we have this as take-away?"

"I don't think so," John said. "This is my birthday dinner. You insisted."

They ate in relative silence, and the food, actually, was kind of amazing. John couldn't help but marvel at the idea of squid ink in pasta in the first place. It was the kind of thing Harry would go in for, wasn't it? Sherlock, in the meantime, was tucking into his spaghetti as if he hadn't eaten in weeks, breadcrumbs miraculously forgotten.

It was nearly eight when they returned to Baker Street. Sherlock fumbled his key into the lock, uncharacteristically clumsy, and held the door open for John. There was silence inside, except for the soft hum of Mrs. Hudson's telly from behind her closed door. Sherlock paused at the foot of the stairs, turning to look at John.

"Thank you," he said, and then reached down to take the large bag containing the framed lithograph off of John. "I'll stow this away. And I _am_ reimbursing you for half. You can't stop me from sending you a bank transfer."

"You can't stop me from sending it back," said John. "Why are you thanking me?"

Sherlock backtracked his way down the bottom few stairs, careful not to let John's parcel knock against the railing, and leaned close, wearing an unreadable expression. 

John hadn't seen him like that since after they had nearly― _since_ ―

The kiss reminded him of those moments underwater, of Sherlock's long limbs trapping him in that accidental, _vital_ embrace. His lips parted at the gentle, questioning swipe of Sherlock's tongue, and then _he_ was the one drowning, his legs giving out on him just as they had when he'd thought the worst of it was over, except it wasn't, oh, it _wasn't_. He was kissing Sherlock back, crushing him all over again.

Two things happened: Sherlock dropped the lithograph, and Mrs. Hudson walked in.

"It's all right," Sherlock babbled, bending to collect the parcel, which had in actuality only hit the floor from a height of about six inches and tipped over neatly to rest against the wall. "The framing is sound, and there's plenty of insulation―"

Mrs. Hudson recovered herself after a few speechless moments of staring at John.

"But I thought―that nice young lady―"

"Ah, no. She's a friend, Mrs. Hudson, just like―" _Sherlock? Just like Sherlock?_ John asks himself, his thoughts racing in meaningless circles. _You poor fool_.

"There, see? No harm done," Sherlock said, holding the bag open to reveal that he'd peeled the bubble wrap open in order to verify the lithograph's soundness. Mrs. Hudson just peered at it, then fixed her bewildered stare on Sherlock.

"Shall I just leave you two alone, then, for the evening?"

"That's really not―" John began, indignant, but checked himself quickly. No, he was _not_ going to walk away from this unchanged. It would be an insult to Sherlock, and probably to himself, too. But he'd need time to think about what the fuck had just happened. Sherlock had kissed him, and he hadn't wanted to pull away.

"Yes," said Sherlock, curtly. "Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

They ascended the stairs without exchanging another word. Sherlock propped the lithograph against the wall next to the sofa, as if to indicate to John that his careless handling ended there. John sat down at the end of the sofa nearest to it, struggling to collect his thoughts. The leather-bound book sat on the coffee table, ominous in the stillness. He set one hand on it. Sherlock hovered close, drawing breath the way he did when the words coming promised to be difficult.

"I'm thanking you," he said, "because I never did at the time. Not properly."

"You did," John said. "You told me the thing I offered to do was good."

"Yes, but then you went and did something better."

John glanced up at him and couldn't help feeling gut-punched all over again. By the look of him, Sherlock was in more pain than John had ever thought possible for someone who prided himself on coldness. And there was fear in Sherlock's eyes, too, a chilly brightness bordering on hysteria.

How plain it was, to discern that he feared John's rejection more than death itself.

"I'm retiring," said Sherlock, with difficulty. "I was wondering if you wanted―"

"I can't answer that question," John told him, rising. "Not yet."

But a kiss seemed kind and right, somehow, because John didn't have the heart for anything less. It tore at John's confusion, made pitiful shreds of it, that Sherlock set careful hands on his shoulders now that both of them were free. That he made low, helpless sounds when John's fingers found his hair, the curve of his jaw. That this could not possibly be happening, except for the part where John knew full well that he was awake, because things like this never happened in the purgatory of his dreams.

"Get some rest, Sherlock," he said. "I'd like to write for a while."

Sherlock nodded, no longer looking wounded or lost. However, the glint of trepidation in his pale eyes wasn't easy to swallow, nor was the sense that he wouldn't sleep for hours because he wanted something that John wasn't certain he could give―or even because, quite simply, _he wanted something he'd thought he could do without_.

Alone at last, John opened the ledger and set his pen to the first flawless page.

_Harry, what in God's name have you done?_

* * *

John woke to the sound of Sherlock's mobile going off next to his pillow. The implications presented themselves with startling precision, leading him to a conclusion that he could really, _really_ do without. He opened the text, which read:

 

_Off to Bart's for a few days. Milk's in_  
the fridge, beans are in the cupboard.  
Borrowed your phone. Do you mind? 

_SH_

 

John groaned. _Groceries_. A sure sign of guilt. He wrote back:

 

_Of course I bloody well mind. What_  
do you mean by 'a few days'? You can't  
sleep there. Can you? Never mind. 

_Also, avoidance? *Really* not good._

_―J._

 

By the time John had finished his shower, dressed, and remembered it was Friday, which meant he didn't have to be at work by one after all, Sherlock still hadn't responded. He probably wouldn't. Mrs. Hudson walked into the sitting room with a tea tray and sandwiches around noon. She patted John's knee and sat down beside him.

"It's too quiet when he's not here. I thought you wouldn't mind a bit of company."

"Thank you," John said. "I wouldn't. What's on telly at this hour?"

"Rubbish, I expect," said Mrs. Hudson, reaching for the remote control.

"Perfect," John sighed, until he saw that what was on was _Jamie At Home_. 

Perfect indeed. Now, he'd be thinking about dinner the night before and very little else. Before the show was even halfway finished, Mrs. Hudson had noticed his distraction. She cut Jamie off in the middle of explaining something that probably would have proved quite tasty, had John decided to attempt it.

"You're in a right state," she sighed. "Sherlock is rarely subtle, I'm afraid."

"He's in a right state, too, I imagine," John said, resigned to the fact that he was broaching the topic of the kiss _without_ benefit of the other involved party being present. "Otherwise, he wouldn't have fled the scene."

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip. "I wish I hadn't walked in when I did. Might've gone better."

"Or it might've gone worse," John sighed. "It didn't go badly, I suppose."

"Must've been something of a shock for you, being kissed like that by..." She trailed off, as if she couldn't say _by a bloke_ or possibly _by someone like Sherlock_.

"It was a shock, yes," John admitted, "but not for the reasons you might think."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a puzzled look over her cup of tea.

"I didn't _mind_ ," John said. "I don't know what that means."

"It means you're more like that pretty twin sister of yours than you think," said Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, don't look so shocked. Sherlock told me all about her. And she's coming here on Monday! You should've given me fair warning. Sherlock's one step ahead of you, though. I ought to be able to put something nice together."

"There's no need," said John. "I was planning on cooking."

Mrs. Hudson patted his knee again. "Aren't _you_ full of surprises? I can see why Sherlock thinks you're a keeper. You two will be wanting to spend some time with Harry, though. Don't trouble yourself. I'll make something nice."

"How did you know she was pretty?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson gave John an odd look. "I added her on Facebook."

"Right, never mind," John muttered. Should have seen that one coming.

"If it bothers you, I can drop―"

"No," John said, seized suddenly by a fit of laughter. "You don't have to do that."

"For all her troubles, she seems nice enough. I'm looking forward to meeting her."

 _You and Sherlock both_ , John thought. Just then, he noticed that he'd left his ledger on the table. A cold knot of panic twisted in his stomach. Sherlock could very well have seen his abortive attempt at a journal entry. He opened the book. Next to his single question, there was an addition in Sherlock's slanting copperplate:

_Blaming your sister for our little epiphany, are you? Classy. Surely the credit's mine._

John closed the book and sighed, pressing it flat in his lap.

"You might want to put that somewhere safe," Mrs. Hudson suggested.

"Nowhere's safe," John said. "Do you think I ought to go to Bart's?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled, so relieved he could feel it coming off her in waves.

"He'd appreciate that, I think. More than he'll ever let on."

For once, John was grateful that Sherlock tended not to work behind locked doors. When John strode into the laboratory, Sherlock didn't even bother to look up at him. What he was doing, as it turned out, was using a scalpel to slice paper-thin, five-pence-piece-sized bits of bacon, which then got put on glass slides, dampened down with a drop of nasty-looking liquid, and mounted for perusal under the microscope.

"I'll save you the trouble of asking. It has to do with protein breakdown."

"Hadn't planned on it," replied John. "You're the only oddity in this room that holds any interest for me. By the way, thanks for telling Mrs. Hudson that Harry's coming over. Now she's going to dislocate her hip rushing around the kitchen."

"I thought it might take some of the pressure off," Sherlock said, finally looking up from the microscope. He looked a fright: dark circles under his eyes, his forehead faintly lined with something resembling worry. "Besides, our kitchen's occupied at the moment. Over capacity, even by my standards. I'd rather no one disturbed it."

"Fair enough. Let's not evict Frankenstein's monster."

"Charming," Sherlock mused, preparing another slide. "It reads."

Unable to quell his anger, John stepped in closer and knocked him upside the head.

"So does this one, by the look of it. Also writes in other people's books."

Sherlock didn't cry out, but his features twisted into a satisfying mask of pain.

"That may have been uncalled-for," he sighed, rubbing the spot John had hit. And then, much lower, so low John might have mistaken it for some observation having to do with the slide he was scrutinizing: " _Sorry_."

"Apology accepted," said John, awkwardly. His fury had passed, and he felt like a right bastard for what he'd done. "Look, about last night, I don't think your hiding out here is going to do either of us any good. Mrs. Hudson's beside herself."

"Can't come home," Sherlock said. "I don't fancy any more domestic violence."

John cringed. "Sherlock, how else I was supposed to get your attention?"

"You had it the moment you walked in the door. Just because I'm not _looking_ at you doesn't mean I don't _see_ you. Surely you don't know that by now. I'm just getting on with this to keep up appearances. It makes you feel better when I act normal."

"Molly's not here," John said, "so put that stuff away and come home, all right?"

"I'll put it away," Sherlock replied, "but it's coming home _with_ me. And as for helping or not helping, we'll find out, won't we? I love a good challenge."

"I'm not challenging you to anything," John said, watching him pack up. "I'm―"

The kiss was quick and electric, just enough to set fire under John's skin.

"Of course you are," said Sherlock, and grinned at him.

John spent the ride home working up the nerve to take Sherlock's hand. 

He didn't.

* * *

Monday afternoon at the surgery found John so mentally exhausted that the most he could do between patients was stare at the wall. The knock scarcely registered.

"You look like a zombie," Sarah said, frowning as she leaned in the doorway.

The weekend had passed in a blur of Sherlock loudly ignoring John from the kitchen as he ran around-the-clock experiments. The only respite had been those brief periods when Sherlock retreated to his room and tortured his violin. John wasn't sure why he'd expected the change of venue to improve their situation; Sherlock wanted some distance, and, Bart's being strictly forbidden, had latched onto the next best thing.

"You're fighting with Sherlock again?" she ventured.

"Yeah," John said, tapping the corner of his diary. "What else is new?"

Sarah came over and sat down on the corner of his desk. There was something in her manner that reminded John uneasily of Mrs. Hudson in comforting-mother mode. She put her hand on John's shoulder.

"Are you going to say it, or am I going to have to say it for you?"

John buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God. Not you, too."

"Either shack up with him properly or move out," said Sarah, lifting her hand from his shoulder so that it connected, _hard_ , with the base of John's skull. "We can't afford to have you distracted like this, and I don't want to see you get fired."

"Right," John said, rubbing his head, marveling at the efficiency of karmic retribution.

"Go home," Sarah sighed. "You've only got half an hour left. I can see your last two."

"Fire me," John said. "Please. I deserve it."

"No, you don't," Sarah said, smiling at him over her shoulder as she went out.

John reached Baker Street at five o'clock on the dot. The first thing he noticed on entry was the smell of something inhumanly delicious emanating from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The second thing he noticed was that there were voices upstairs, _three_ of them, engaged in lively conversation punctuated with occasional laughter.

Harry's laughter.

 _Sherlock's_.

Cursing under his breath, John raced up the stairs, losing his smock somewhere along the way. He brushed down his shirt as he stepped into the room, muttering, "Sorry, didn't know we were kicking off this early. What was it, six?"

"I decided to turn up early," said Harry, beaming up at him from the sofa. Her eyes seemed unnaturally bright, but she was sober. Mrs. Hudson sat beside her, and Sherlock had opted for the chair.

"I should've texted you, but I was on kitchen duty," said Sherlock.

"The atrocities up here, or the oven downstairs?"

"Ooh!" said Mrs. Hudson, rising. "Better go check the lamb."

John was left staring at Sherlock and Harry, who stared back with predatory amusement. _Christ_ , he thought. _Make it quick_. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on him as he took a seat beside Harry, undershot with barely disguised envy. It made John want to kiss him then and there, never mind who was watching. But he didn't.

"Atrocities?" Harry asked, mystified.

"Nobody's given you the grand tour yet?" John asked.

Sherlock scowled at John, but it turned into a smile when Harry looked at him.

"I'd love a look about," she said. "I know it's set up like a lab in there. I could see some test tubes and things on the way in. How fascinating it must be for you, John."

"You have no idea," John said. "Sherlock, why don't you do the honors?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, rising quickly, probably to disguise his annoyance. "This way," he said to Harry, indicating that she should follow him. "I warn you now: if you touch anything, I'll have to bind your hands."

Harry shot John a look that said, _You always did like the psychotic ones._

How very like her, to rub salt into an already raw wound. 

John followed them into the kitchen with no small amount of trepidation. Sherlock was talking, and although it was old hat for _him_ , Harry would take in a third of it if she was lucky. Sherlock opened the refrigerator and―

"Oh, fucking hell," John said. It could have been worse, but it was still pretty bad.

Harry stared, but she recovered herself admirably. "Is that―?"

"A hand, yes," said Sherlock, absently. "The morgue at Bart's was kind enough to let me borrow it. Do you see that faint blue line running―"

"Not anymore," John said, shoving Sherlock aside and shutting the door. "Tour's over."

Harry gave him an irritated look. "But it was just starting to get interesting."

"I don't care," John said, standing with his back firmly against the refrigerator door, arms folded. "I don't know about you, but I'd like to hang onto my appetite."

"John, don't pretend to be squeamish," Sherlock chided.

"Yeah," Harry chimed in. "By now, I should think you've seen your fair share."

John's vision blurred slightly. _Oh, God, not this. Not now. Not tonight._

Sherlock's eyes widened a little, and then went back to normal. 

In a move that stalled John's breath somewhere between his tongue and his teeth, Sherlock put an arm around John's shoulders and steered him out of the kitchen. Harry had very little choice but to follow. John could feel the ripple of her curiosity from behind him, as if she'd reached out and poked him in the back. _Stop it_.

"You're right," said Sherlock. "Perhaps not the best idea. Let's go downstairs."

Harry called ahead to Mrs. Hudson, asking if she needed any help in the kitchen. In spite of the inevitable refusal, she went straight on ahead, sending out a waft of savory steam as she closed the door behind her. He turned to Sherlock, about to say they might as well just wait in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room, but the intensity of Sherlock's questioning gaze made him think of other things, other _places_. 

John braced himself.

"I'm fine," he said. "It's passed. I was afraid she was going to bring up the war."

"Don't scare me like that," Sherlock said, backing him up against the wall. " _Don't_ ―"

Kissing. _Again_. Not new anymore. Maybe even normal, in their unconventional way. John wrapped both arms around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down closer, overwhelmed by his height and his frankness and his unabashed _worry_. Dreadful, seeing him like that. Maybe Sherlock was right about the acting-normal thing.

"Not much longer, boys!" Mrs. Hudson shouted.

Reflexively, John let go. Sherlock stepped away from him, breathing high and shallow. If John hadn't known better, he would have assumed Sherlock's ribs were still bothering him, but they hadn't done in months. John's heart raced.

"We'll wait in the dining room," Sherlock replied, his voice maddeningly level.

John trailed after him, trembling with frustration. Damn it, damn Harry, damn _everything_. If they'd only been alone, he'd have been tempted to take Sherlock up on his invitation. If it was still open. If he hadn't misread it. Maybe it had never been open in the first place. John took the chair next to Sherlock's and stared at his ghostly reflection in Mrs. Hudson's clean white china plate. He _did_ look like a zombie.

Harry was right about him, as always. To top it all off, Sarah was right, too.

Sherlock closed the short distance between them under the tablecloth and touched John's hand. As if to say, _It can't have been easy for you, letting her come_.

* * *

Thanks to Mrs. Hudson, conversation around the dinner table tilted comfortably to the banal: Harry's career, Sherlock's persistent misadventures, the unusually hot weather they'd been having. Not that Sherlock's misadventures were particularly banal, but John suspected that it was _his_ involvement that somehow made them so. Harry was white as a sheet by the time he and Sherlock had finished explaining the gritty particulars of every case they'd taken on since March.

Two months since Moriarty, and nothing else in between.

“You'll catch him, right?” asked Harry. She'd scarcely touched her food.

“Sooner or later,” said Sherlock, attempting to sound reassuring. “Impulsiveness invariably leads to stupidity. He'll slip up sooner or later, when he finally resurfaces.”

“We'll just have to hope you're not impulsive _first_ ,” John murmured.

“Well, that's what you're here for, isn't it?” asked Mrs. Hudson, cheerfully.

Harry's frown deepened, and, with it, the lines in her forehead.

“John, what _are_ you doing here?”

The question hung in the air between the four of them, inescapable.

John wiped his mouth and blinked at her, forcing himself to smile in an attempt to stave off the fierce, sudden anger that rose in him. She'd been gunning for an argument all evening, hadn't she?

“Let's see, Harry,” he began, “what am I _doing_ here? Well: first, there was the part where you collected me at the airport smelling of gin, cider, and God knows what else. Then, there was the part where, instead of having the whole tearful-reunion-and-catch-up thing that all my mates had―the ones who made it home, anyway―I spent the next forty-five minutes navigating both you _and_ my luggage through the entire bloody underground just to find the place they'd sorted out for me in the meantime, and you were mostly asleep on my shoulder any time we weren't walking, and oh, by the way, you didn't even _mention_ the cane. Not once.”

Mrs. Hudson was staring down at her plate, and Sherlock was listening intently, his head tilted ever so slightly in John's direction. Harry, on the other hand, was biting into her lower lip so hard that she'd probably draw blood if she didn't stop soon.

If _John_ didn't stop soon.

It was the brush of Sherlock's hand, again, under the table, that snapped him out of it.

Harry took a shuddering breath and opened her mouth to speak. “John, I―”

“No,” John said. “ _I'm_ the one who's sorry. Believe me.”

Harry lifted her head and gave him a hard, defiant look.

“For what, John? Which part of it?”

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath startled John even more than Harry's bluntness.

“I'd better clear up,” said Mrs. Hudson, but she only took her own plate as she left.

John couldn't answer, he realized, without hurting more than one person in the room. He stared down at what was left of his lamb. Gristle and bone. Traces of green-tinted butter left over from the rather tasty asparagus they'd had as an accompaniment.

“I'd better clear _out_ ,” said Harry, firmly setting down her silverware.

“I'll show you to the door,” said Sherlock, unexpectedly, rising to follow her.

Even after John heard Harry and Sherlock exchange terse pleasantries and the front door rattle shut, Sherlock didn't return to the dining room. Mrs. Hudson reappeared after about fifteen minutes, to make sure the coast was clear, and got on with the clearing-up. John offered to help, but she shooed him away with one curt wave of the oven mitt. He'd managed to offend everyone, it seemed.

John found Sherlock upstairs, stretched out full-length on the sofa, violin in hand. The bow was nowhere in sight. He held the instrument to his chest, plucking agitated counterpoint to his thoughts. John wanted to reach out and still his restless fingers, to say that this would never happen again, but that wasn't true. It would keep on happening so long as Harry was his twin, some part of him, irrevocable.

“I don't blame you if you're not speaking to me,” John said, and turned to leave the room. He'd only got in a few labored steps―his leg, out of the blue, had ideas of its own―when Sherlock's hand fell on his shoulder.

“Not to belabor the point, but what _are_ you doing here? If not for Harry, I'd never have worked up the nerve to ask. All evidence points to the fact that you'd frequently rather be elsewhere: you're fed up with my uses for the kitchen, legitimate though they are, and every time you get angry, it's off to Sarah's―”

“Sherlock, not in _weeks_ ―”

“―or for a very long walk, don't you _dare_ interrupt me. Now, as you know, I'm not a patient person. I've made a number of concessions on your behalf. I need not tell you what these are. So, in return, I simply request that you answer the question.”

John stared at the floor, chewing his lower lip. 

Fuck it all, he even shared Harry's _mannerisms_.

“It was a gamble,” he said. “A risk. Just like going to war. I _like_ you, Sherlock. I don't always take easily to others. For crying out loud, I don't even like my own sister.”

“Which is a pity,” said Sherlock. “Because she loves you so much it hurts, and, _no_ thanks to her, for once, I find myself empathizing with another human being.”

It hurt more than any physical blow Sherlock could possibly have dealt him.

Sherlock's eyes had turned so pale and cold that John couldn't find words for the look.

“I'm not walking out on you right now,” he said resolutely. “That's a start.”

“You could rewind a bit,” Sherlock said. “Back to where I asked you if you wanted...”

He trailed off on purpose this time, a mockery of his own genuine, nervous desire.

“She's put me off,” John said, turning and continuing in the direction he'd been heading. “Put me off everything, Sherlock. I'll spend the rest of the night wondering whether or not she's drinking her self into a stupor, and if she is, I'll know it's all my fault. Do you think I want to bring that to bed?”

Something like relief crossed Sherlock's features, but it faded quickly to chagrin.

“No,” he said. “Of course not. I'll be here,” he added, returning to the sofa, resuming his violin, all the more fragile-seeming as he picked up exactly where he'd left off.

John limped over, bent and kissed the top of Sherlock's head, and backtracked. He'd never be able to backtrack far enough or fast enough or― _no_ , never enough.

He dreamed of fire and pool-tile shrapnel. Harry's blue lips and Sherlock's red hands.

* * *

John woke to another text: this time, it was his own phone next to his pillow. Sherlock must have put it there sometime during the night. _Sherlock_. He recalled their conversation and wished he'd opted for kissing instead of talking. Surely he could have taken it to bed, taken _everything_ , and Sherlock would have devoured it whole, set his demons to flight. God, he'd been an idiot. _God_.

 _Clara stopped me_ , was all the text said. _Thought you'd want to know_.

 _Small mercies_ , John texted back, and then followed it with, _Glad you're all right_.

 _I wouldn't say that_ , came her reply. _You fucking berk. Thank Mrs. Hudson for dinner_.

John winced, but he didn't reply. There were voices drifting up the hall from the sitting room, male voices, both of which he knew well. They were waiting for him, probably. Best not to keep them in suspense.

“You've seen better mornings, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said as John limped into the room.

“Yes,” John said, his eyes automatically seeking Sherlock's. “Yes, I have.”

“So have I,” Sherlock said, glaring at Mycroft. “The ones when you're not here.”

“I thought it might be of some interest to you that I was able to contact your sister's would-be-ex-wife, as they say, just in the nick of time,” said Mycroft. “You can thank Anthea for that bit of quick thinking.”

Sherlock sneered at him. “I'd say she was a waste of your payroll resources, but then, if your massive intellect needs the back-up―”

“John, Clara's asked if you would meet her,” said Mycroft, levelly, ignoring his brother. “She didn't know how to contact you. Harry wouldn't tell her. I said that you would certainly be amenable to coffee this afternoon. I think you know where.”

John just nodded, taking a seat beside Sherlock. “What does she want?”

“Advice, I should think,” Mycroft said.

“On what? I'm not doing so well on that score, especially not after last night.”

“Your outburst was unfortunate,” Mycroft said, and John couldn't help but wonder how much Sherlock had told him. “You'd like the chance to make amends. I'm offering it.”

“Thanks,” John said. “When?”

“At noon,” Mycroft said. “I thought that would give you ample time.”

Ever so slightly, Sherlock let his hand drift closer to John's on the cushion.

“I'll go, too,” he said, lifting his chin, a subtle challenge.

“No, you won't,” Mycroft said, silently appealing to John.

“Probably best if I go it alone,” John sighed. He squeezed Sherlock's hand.

Mycroft frowned at them. “Are you quite _certain_ there's nothing you ought to tell me?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, sourly, folding his arms. “And even if there were, it's none of your sodding business. Christ, Mycroft. Did Mummy put you up to it?”

John turned his back on the bickering siblings and headed back to his room to dress, or in the very least make it look like he'd made an effort. Were he and Harry like that, he wondered? Or were they _worse_?

Clara was waiting inside the coffee shop when John arrived, sat off to one side, none of that lurking-at-the-back business that Harry preferred when she went searching for a table. She rose when John approached, smiling thinly as she tucked a loose strand of chin-length blond hair behind her ear. She, too, was thinner than John remembered, her clear grey-green eyes underlined by dark shadows. She looked five, maybe even ten years older. What _else_ had Harry done?

“Hi, John,” she said, holding out one hand. “Gosh, look at you.”

John shook it, smiling. “Hello, Clara. It's been a long time.”

“Not so long,” she said, dropping wearily back into her chair. “You'd be surprised how time flies when you've got trouble on your hands. After a while, you hardly notice.”

“About last night,” John said, taking the seat across from her. “ _Thank you_.”

“She can't have made it easy,” Clara said. “Not if she turned up with a few in her.”

“She didn't,” John admitted. “Sober as a judge. By the time you got to her―?”

“A can of Strongbow or two,” Clara said. “That's all I could find in the house, so she must have popped into an off-license. John, about this man, Mycroft...”

“Ah, yes,” John said. “Him. That'll be my flatmate's brother.”

“Is he in the government or something? How does he know so much about us?”

“He's in the government,” John said. “Sherlock―that is, er, my flatmate―he gets in all sorts of trouble. He's kind of a...private detective. Kind of. Lots of people hate him.”

“His website says he's a consulting detective.”

“Whatever. Yes. Okay, I was just trying to make this easier, but I see we're on the same page. Anyway, Mycroft has got this misguided idea that he's got to keep an eye on anyone even _remotely_ connected to Sherlock, and that would mean anyone even remotely connected to _me_ by extension...which would mean...”

“Harry,” said Clara, nodding pensively. “Me. Listen, about this bloke being your flatmate, your sister made it sound rather more...complicated.”

“It is,” John said, not about to deny it, not anymore. “Complicated, I mean. We're trying to...you know what, 'sort things out' doesn't quite cut it. But there you are.”

Unexpectedly, Clara burst into an uncontrollable grin. “It starts out like that. Just wait till you can't ignore it anymore; that's where the real fun starts.”

“I think we're well past that point,” John said. “Listen, do you want some―”

“I already ordered some tea. English Breakfast, a pot for two.”

 _Perfect, now I can't stall for time_. “Thanks,” John said.

“That adds a whole new layer of meaning, though,” Clara said. “I can't imagine you're coping very well with Harry's burning desire to make amends when you're coping with this brilliant nutter who's turned your life upside-down―oh, does he _really_ keep body parts in the fridge? Harry said―”

“Keep your voice down,” John muttered. “Yes, he does. Too frequently for my liking.”

“I wouldn't mind meeting him. He sounds _well_ fascinating, and I'll tell you what, my mum just got burgled a week ago and the police have been absolutely incompetent.”

“You might try dropping him an email,” said John, wearily. “In all honesty, though, he's been distracted. Did Harry mention there's another brilliant nutter out there, a nasty one who wants us both dead, but not before he's had a little fun?”

Clara looked startled. “You and Harry?”

“No, me and Sherlock.”

“ _Oh_. Oh, right. Sorry.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, and then one of the baristas brought over their tea and there was even _more_ silence while they went about pouring, milking, and sugaring. John almost wished Sherlock _had_ come.

“I wanted to ask your advice,” said Clara, finally. “Harry wants to talk about things.”

“I take it you've been 'talking about things' for a while already,” John replied.

“Yes, all right. We have. But I'm never sure when she's lying about her progress. I thought, seeing as you've seen her a few times―”

“Twice.”

“―well, yes, _twice_ lately, I thought perhaps you'd be able to tell me.”

“Tell you what, precisely?”

“Is she lying about being mostly sober?”

“No,” John said, reaching across the table to take Clara's hand. “She isn't. I promise.”

It took Clara's eyes brimming over with tears, catching the low lighting at just the right angle, for John to notice the eerie similarity. Could he not help it, being drawn to eyes that shimmered like dawn on the North Sea?

“I'll try, John,” she said. “Try to be strong for her. I know she loves me, but she...”

“Fucked up,” said John, wryly. “There's nothing for it. But she's trying for _you_ , too.”

“Maybe all for me,” Clara said, wiping her nose. “And that isn't right. It's got to be―”

“For her, too,” John said, letting go of her hand. “Yeah. I couldn't agree more.”

“She wants to see you again, the mad slag,” Clara sighed fondly, blowing her nose.

“What, today?” John asked. “I don't think that's going to happen. Sherlock's volatile.”

“Stroppy?” Clara asked, sipping her tea. “The jealous type?”

“Kind of. The whole world needs to revolve around him, but, more importantly, _I_ need to revolve around him. That's one of the bits we're trying to work out.”

“I know what that's like,” Clara sighed. “Poor sod, he's _gone_ on you.”

John contemplated his tea, and then grinned, because Clara couldn't seem to stop.

“Fortunately,” he said, “I'm pretty far gone, too.”

It was a relief to discover that he and Clara still enjoyed each other's company. If anything, they seemed to enjoy each other _more_ now that the air was clear regarding John's affections. By the time they parted ways, Clara had made him promise to call or text Harry―preferably call, but she seemed to understand that this was unlikely―for the sole purpose of arranging another visit.

John was almost home when he finally sent the text:

 

_Saw Clara today. She's looking well.  
Hold onto that one. Let's try again, too?_

 

 _Maybe_ , Harry wrote back. _All right. But you're coming to mine._

 

_That's great, but when?_

 

_Saturday night. Got a lot of viewings  
between now and then. Bring Sherlock._

 

John rolled his eyes. She _would_ find a way of enlisting her new ally's help.

 

_Fine. What about food?_

 

_We'll go out. I haven't got a housekeeper._

 

 _She's our landlady_ , John wrote back. 

Harry didn't respond.

By the time he'd reached Baker Street and spotted the patrol car out front, though, it didn't much matter. Inside, he found Mrs. Hudson fretting in the hall while Sherlock ripped into Lestrade behind the closed door to their sitting room. 

John pushed his way through, not bothering to knock.

“Get out,” he said to Lestrade, bypassing him in order to peer into the kitchen. Empty.

“Back-up's in your room,” Sherlock said. “All one and a half of them.”

John turned to face Sherlock. Lestrade hovered behind him, arms folded.

“This isn't a drugs bust. We're looking for _other_ contraband, if you follow.”

 _Fuck_ , John thought. _Firearm possession merits more than just an ASBO._

“No,” he said. “I'm afraid I don't. Sherlock, go tidy the kitchen.”

“But I've hardly―”

“ _Now_ ,” said John, giving him a shove in the right direction. Sherlock went without protest, as if glad to have the job of haggling with Lestrade taken off his hands. “Might as well have a seat,” he said to the D.I., heading for the sofa. 

Much to his surprise, Lestrade followed and took a seat beside him.

“How long do you suppose he'll keep this up?”

John blinked at him. “Keep what up?”

“Turning down cases,” said Lestrade, frustrated. “I've dangled half a dozen right in front of his nose in the past month. He's had none of it.”

“I had no idea,” John said, scandalized at the notion. “He hasn't mentioned them.”

“He wouldn't,” Lestrade sighed. “Not when he's in one of his moods. There must be something more important occupying that infernal mind, heaven help him.”

“So you thought a―” John paused, choosing his words with care “―contraband bust might be the way forward. Except I doubt you're finding much of anything.”

“I thought maybe if I made it seem like I was threatening _you_ , he'd relent,” Lestrade admitted sheepishly. “I can't tell if it's working. All I know is that he's livid.”

“They must've seen the fridge,” John said. “Anderson's not blind.”

“We've seen worse in places _other_ than the fridge,” said Lestrade, half smiling.

“Body parts aren't contraband, then?”

“They're contraband we're willing to overlook. Now, _weapons_ , on the other hand―”

Donovan walked into the room with John's gun dangling from her index finger. Anderson wasn't far behind, smirking at John from over Donovan's shoulder. Sherlock wandered in from the kitchen, dish towel in hand.

“Nice time to take up domesticity, freak,” said Donovan. “Care to explain this?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It's not mine.”

Donovan turned away from him and raised her eyebrows questioningly at John.

“Not his, either,” Sherlock cut in before John could respond.

“We found it in his _room_. Unless you can explain that, too?”

“Certainly,” Sherlock says. “It belongs to the Army. John's merely holding onto it until such time as its safe return can be arranged.”

Donovan laughed and turned back to John. “Do you have anything to add?”

“No,” John said. “Not particularly.”

“This is a serious offense,” Lestrade warned. “Consider your answer more carefully.”

Sherlock hurled the dish towel at Anderson. “Do us all a favor and cover your face.” He stepped up to Lestrade―such calm, enviable poise―and bent down so that their faces were level, his hands braced on his thighs. “This will be easy to clear up, won't it? You'll look the other way if I stop ignoring your texts.”

Lestrade shrugged. “That's a decent proposition. Can I hold you to it?”

“Inasmuch as you can hold me to anything,” Sherlock said, “yes.”

“Sergeant Donovan,” said Lestrade.

“ _Fine_ ,” she muttered, setting the gun down on the coffee table.

From underneath the dish towel, Anderson groaned.

Mrs. Hudson, sensing that the coast was clear, finally wandered in and hustled the three of them out with the dithering efficiency that only a landlady-and-sometimes-housekeeper could provide. She gave John and Sherlock a wink as she left.

“Did you learn that trick from her?” John asked.

“What trick―ah, no,” Sherlock said. “Shot in the dark, but it worked, didn't it?”

Sherlock didn't resist when John leaned in, set one hand against his cheek, and kissed him softly on the lips. It felt almost normal now, doing this. Like something they might do every day for the rest of their lives, if Sherlock would have it. 

If John was really ready for it. _If_.

“Anderson's face,” Sherlock explained, pulling away with the appearance of more determination than John could actually detect. “Not exactly foreplay material, is it?”

“No,” John sighed, disappointed, realizing that he deserved this particular slap, too, as much as he'd deserved the others. “I suppose not. That's―I mean, it's fine.”

Sherlock nodded, his feigned expression of relief equally unconvincing.

“I know,” he said, rising. “I'd better fetch that hand out of the bin.”

John sighed as Sherlock wandered off to the kitchen, where he'd probably remain for the next few hours in an attempt to salvage his interrupted experiment.

“We're off to Harry's late Saturday afternoon,” John called after him.

“I know that, too,” Sherlock replied. “If nothing else, Mycroft's as good as a diary, and it's to be expected anyway; you forgot to give her the lithograph.”

“And the card,” John muttered under his breath.

“Posted it for you,” Sherlock said, raising his voice so as to be heard above the tap.

 _Housekeeper_ , Harry texted back a few seconds later. _See you Saturday_.

John sighed and stared at the ceiling, wondering how long it would take for them―he and Harry, he and Sherlock, what was the difference?―to forgive each other.

* * *

John should have known taking Sherlock on public transport would be a nightmare.

“Not enough space,” Sherlock muttered for the third time, slouching in his seat.

“Sadly, train was our only option,” John said. “Unless you'd have preferred paying the cab fare to Reading. You haven't taken enough cases recently to splash out.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, folding his arms across his chest and staring petulantly out the window as the scenery glided past. “I'd have called Mycroft.”

John snorted. “Voluntarily?”

“He'd have given us a lift,” Sherlock explained. “He's there to be used if I see fit.”

“Or ignored,” John sighed, hazarding some physical contact. He leaned close to Sherlock. “Or insulted. Has it ever occurred to you that he may find it hurtful?”

“As far as I'm concerned, you've got no moral high ground to stand on,” Sherlock said, but he leaned away from the window and into John. Turned his head so that his eyes silvered with the early evening sunlight as it streamed through the window.

“I suppose not,” John said, transfixed. His heart was in his throat again, rising as Sherlock tilted his head and parted his lips in subtle, yet clear invitation.

Another test, but one that John knew he could pass.

Sherlock wouldn't have done this if the rest of the car hadn't been nearly deserted, but what mattered most was that he _had_ done it. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders as they kissed, the gentle swaying of the train coupled with Sherlock's tea-and-biscuits taste almost hypnotic. John had bought him the tea and biscuits when the beverage cart had gone by in a vain attempt to pacify him. Sherlock's hand crept up John's thigh, dangerously distracting. Now, all he could think about was getting Sherlock to bed as quickly as possible, keeping him there all night whether he slept or not, and bringing him the same fare for breakfast, crumbs in the sheets be damned. 

“I wish this were a good idea,” John murmured, trailing kisses up Sherlock's flushed cheek to his earlobe, “but given our present location, it really isn't.”

Sherlock's grasp on his thigh tightened, and then subsided.

“It was worth a shot,” sighed Sherlock, and settled for resting his forehead against John's, leaning into the embrace. Amazing, that he seemed so comfortable with this kind of intimacy in public. Maybe he'd have done it even if the car had been full. 

The thought made John shiver.

Harry was waiting for them at the station, just beyond the ticket barriers. She looked John up and down first, and then Sherlock, as if she, _like_ Sherlock, didn't need anything more in order to draw some sound conclusions. 

John embraced Harry before she could reach for him, kissed her on the cheek.

“You've dressed down for once, I see,” he said. “Those jeans look good on you.”

“Sherlock,” she said, ignoring John's compliment as she reached for Sherlock's hand, taking it between both of her own. Slight tremors in her fingers, John couldn't help but notice. Fatigue, perhaps, or the strain of the past two weeks. “You must be sick of him. Cooped up in a train car for forty minutes; how did you manage it?”

Sherlock patted the back of her hand, pursing his lips wryly.

“Not without practice,” he said. “How far to yours?”

“Short cab ride,” Harry said, giving John the let's-go,-you-idiot look. “My treat. John, what on earth is with that parcel? You jump whenever I get near it.”

“You'll see,” said John, and following her and Sherlock towards the taxi queue.

“Thanks for the card,” she said offhandedly once she'd told the cabbie her address and they'd settled awkwardly into their seats. “Both of you.”

John gave Sherlock a questioning look. _You signed it?_

Sherlock shrugged. _Of course, why not?_

“You're welcome,” said John, wearily, leaning against the window.

Much to John's relief, Clara wasn't at the house. They were greeted instead by Harry's cats, Tess and Delilah, nosy tabbies both. The last time John had seen them, they'd been excruciatingly cute kittens. He had little patience with cats, but he was of the opinion that you'd have to be a heartless monster not to be moved by kittens. Tess, fat and grown, butted her hear against his shin.

Sherlock was already on his knees next to Delilah, scratching under her chin.

 _There goes the heartless monster theory_ , John thought, and bent to rub Tess's head. She purred and bit lightly at John's wrist: affectionate, as if she remembered him.

“Sweeties, you be nice,” Harry said to the cats, kicking out of her expensive ballet flats. For once, she and John had been more or less eye-to-eye on meeting. “This way,” she said, leading them up the lushly carpeted stairs.

If Sherlock was impressed by the size and ostentatiousness of Harry's house, he didn't let it show. No, what was John thinking? He'd probably grown up in the old-money equivalent, some crumbling family estate in the Cotswolds somewhere with a servant or two and acres upon acres of ground. He imagined Mummy― _Sherlock's mother_ , he corrected himself―pottering about in the garden sporting a hat to rival the Queen's.

“Garish,” said Sherlock, under his breath, once Harry had bustled off to the kitchen to feed the cats and put the kettle on, “but comfortable. Her art collection's worth a small fortune. That Chagall over there is signed. She used to frequent auctions, didn't she? Encourage her to take it up again. Art's a better addiction than drink.”

“Yes,” John sighed, setting the well-wrapped Kandinsky to one side. “But costlier.”

“She's good for it,” said Sherlock. He took John's hand and led him into the kitchen.

Harry had done some remodeling in John's absence: the kitchen was a different color, and the floor was now laminate instead of linoleum. She'd replaced the old table and chairs with a more modern set, dark hardwood, all clean lines and angles. She gestured for them to sit and busied herself readying the tea tray. 

Delilah abandoned her food dish and hopped up on the empty chair beside Sherlock, her short tail swishing expectantly. Tess posted herself at the foot of John's chair in a content sprawl. John scritched her head with his toes.

“Thank goodness they like both of you,” Harry said, finally joining them. “They were ages getting used to Clara. Tess used to hide under the bed until we'd gone to sleep.”

“Extraordinary creatures, cats,” said Sherlock, stroking Delilah. “Perceptive to a fault.”

John sipped his tea, wondering if they were in for a lecture on cats and crime-solving.

“Like you,” Harry said, grinning at Sherlock. “You must drive John mad. I approve.”

“Takes some getting used to,” John volunteered, “but it's actually incredible.”

Sherlock had that look on his face that was equal parts puzzled and embarrassed.

“John, I'm sure I've made it perfectly clear that it _isn't_ ―”

“You'll never convince him of that,” said Harry, into her teacup, and didn't elaborate.

Tea was followed by a tour of the rest of the house, which was rendered somewhat perilous by two wound-up cats perpetually underfoot. Harry had put a piano in the dining room (Clara played), and her office, in contrast to the rest of what they'd seen, was disorderly. She straightened a few stacks of property price-guides on her desk.

“Most days, I live in here,” she admitted. “The house is quiet with Clara gone.”

John felt a pang: the flat without Sherlock was a sensation he knew all too well, and was grateful those absences never tended to last for long. _It'll be worse from now on_ , he told himself. _Nights during cases especially_.

As Harry led them out of the room, Sherlock hung back next to him, reassuring. Hovered at his back as they mounted the steep, broad staircase up to the second floor, shadowed by playful Delilah and watchful Tess. 

Harry showed off the master bedroom first, ducking her head almost apologetically as she turned on the lights. Huge, just as John remembered it. Twice the size of their sitting-room at Baker Street. Private tiled bathroom, high arched windows. At least the king-size bed wasn't canopied; _that_ would've been overkill. The room smelled of freesia. Sherlock was cataloguing his surroundings like he would a crime-scene.

 _For future reference_ , thought John, pushing the notion aside.

“Bathroom,” Harry said, leading them back out into the hall and across the way. 

She pushed open the door and, yes, still more excess: the elaborate toilet with its wall-mounted tank and pull-chain, the claw-footed bathtub, the walk-in shower so large it occupied one entire side of the room.

“There's a loo downstairs, of course. But you can use this one if you're up here.”

“Good to know,” said Sherlock, sounding a touch impatient. “And the guest-rooms?”

Harry tilted her head at him as she switched off the light. “How did you―”

“Three doors left,” Sherlock said. “Linen cupboard and guest rooms. A house like this one _always_ has at least one guest-room. You've got two, but you use the spare for storage. You're not going to show us that.”

“No, I'm not,” Harry said, and led them over to the door left of the linen closet.

John knew the guest-room well, because he'd stayed in it a few times. Delilah and Tess hopped happily up on the overlarge bed―only queen-size, this one, with a down duvet and ridiculously high thread-count―as if to assert ownership. 

They'd been shedding all over the cream-colored carpet, too, and a few scratch-marks on the windowsill told John that at least one of them refused to believe she was too big to be jumping up there anymore. Delilah, he was willing to bet.

“That's it, really,” Harry said, closing the door behind them as they filed out.

“Lovely,” Sherlock said as they descended the stairs. “Nothing like my family home.”

“You have a brother, don't you?” Harry asked, indicating the sofa. “Please sit.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, tight-lipped. He contemplated the marble-topped coffee table.

John took a seat beside him, giving Harry a warning glance.

“Mycroft's irritating,” he said. “Just wait till you come home and he's sat right where we are, ready to give you the third degree. Happens to us all the bloody time.”

“He's in the government,” Harry said. “And he worries about you lot. Clara says he's the reason she got here just in time. Seems he's taken up worrying about me, too.”

“It's less about worry and more to do with being a nosy git,” said Sherlock.

John tried to suppress his grin, but couldn't. At least he hadn't burst out laughing.

Harry grinned back at him from across the table, leaning forward in her chair.

“I was thinking we'd go out,” she said. “If you're hungry, that is.”

“Not quite,” said Sherlock, frowning. Too polite to tell her he was off his food again, maybe, or reluctant to bring it up more for John's sake than anyone else's.

“We could just order take-away,” John suggested. “My leg,” he lied, patting it.

“I hope you held onto the cane,” Harry sighed. “You may need it yet.”

Sherlock just gave him a grateful look, otherwise occupied with a lapful of Tess.

“He's good with cats,” Harry whispered half an hour later, in the kitchen, as she and John unpackaged two orders of Pad Thai and one prawn red curry. “I imagined they'd run from him, what with... _well_. If not the demeanor, then the stuff he handles.”

“Cats probably like body parts,” John said. He mashed down Sherlock's jasmine rice on a plate and spread the curry over it. Picked out the peppers and ate them, glad that there weren't too many. Otherwise, he'd have no room for his Pad Thai.

“God,” Harry said, her plate and John's in hand. “No wonder. You spoil him rotten.”

John gave her an indignant look, his mouth still full, but there was nothing for it.

Once they'd finished (Sherlock had eaten most of his prawns, but less than half of the rice), John told Harry to forget about the dishes for a minute and stay put. She looked thoroughly dazed anyway, what with how Sherlock had spent the past sixty minutes stripping down the participants of the chat-show they'd been watching to the last tawdry detail. John fetched the lithograph and handed it to Harry. Sherlock distracted the cats while she undid the miles of bubble wrap, feeding them bits of prawn.

“Oh, look at _you_ ,” Harry said, holding the frame out at arms' length. Her eyes were lit with a sort of disbelieving joy, as if she'd imagined the moment a dozen times over and it had finally caught up with her. “John, how did you know?”

John folded his arms and blinked at her. “Know...what, precisely?”

“That this beauty was in the window at the Witch-Ball for weeks,” she said, possessively stroking the edge of the frame with her index finger. “That I stopped to stare at it every time I walked past. The owner was starting to hate me.”

John glanced sidelong at Sherlock. He pretended to be busy with stroking the cats―which, in fairness, he _was_ , as both of them were in his lap.

“Lucky guess,” he said. “It was in the window, right where I could see it, and it looked like something you might like. You know how blokes are. Lazy shoppers and all that.”

“You can't afford this,” Harry said. “ _I_ can afford this. I should've just walked in and picked it up.” She was almost chiding herself, but her eyes were fixed on the image.

Sherlock was giving the top of Delilah's head that curious, crooked smile of his. He pressed his lips behind one silky ear as it twitched with pleasure. 

Was it wrong to be jealous of a cat?

“Thank you,” said Harry, quietly. “Both of you.”

Right about then, John would have suggested that he and Sherlock get a move-on, as transport was a bit wonky on Saturday evenings and didn't run as late as it did on Fridays, Sundays, or even on week-nights. However, Harry was so giddy over the artwork that she managed to conscript John into helping her hang it on the wall down in the entryway (matched the deep purple doormat, she said, and sure enough, it did). 

The job took a lot of hammering, holding the stepladder steady for each other, and swearing, but between the two of them, they got it done. It was only as they stood back to admire their handiwork that Sherlock loomed up at the top of the six stairs leading into the sitting-room, frowning vaguely at John's iPhone.

“National Rail says we've missed the last train,” he said.

Delilah, wound around his ankles, wasn't perturbed at this announcement.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John said, and then noticed Harry's quizzical expression. “Sorry.”

“No,” she said, “it's just, that's not a problem, you know. You can stay.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, neatly pocketing the iPhone, seemingly unfussed.

“Hope you don't mind sharing―” Harry paused, as if it had only just occurred to her that she might be treading on thin ice “―I mean, there's only the one room.”

John sighed. “No, that's fine.” What _wasn't_ fine was that he'd had it in his head to get Sherlock home and, hopefully, both of them in the same bed. But not _here_.

Harry yawned sharply. “Goodness. It's too early for me to be knackered. John, would you help me with the dishes? I'm not used to doing them for three.”

“I'll head upstairs, if you don't mind,” Sherlock said, turning on his heel. “Good night.”

“Feel free to use the shower. Clean linens are in the cupboard next to the sink.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, his voice drifting down from even farther above.

“He's a prick, but a polite one,” Harry said in a half-whisper, dragging John up to the kitchen. “Is it just that he likes some people better than others?”

“He does what he pleases _when_ he pleases,” John sighed, taking up his old post in front of the sink. Harry already had a dish towel in hand, waiting for him to turn on the tap and start in on the plates. He'd _never_ got to do the drying, not once.

“Up to and including how he treats others?”

“Yes, but he's been a damn sight more genuine lately. It's unsettling.”

Harry leaned against the worktop, smiling wistfully at him as he handed over a glass.

"For God's sake, John. Don't you think it's time you put him out of his misery?"

“Is that what you did for Clara?” John screwed his eyes shut. _Bit not good_.

“At first, if you want to call it that, yes,” she said. “Something's got to give.”

“Sherlock's been at it with a pick for over a week,” John sighed, handing her a plate.

"Let him put you out of yours, too," she said. "I'll take over from here."

John dried his hands hesitantly on the proffered dish towel. 

“Are you sure you don't want someone to sit up with you?”

“Clara might drop by,” said Harry. “Granted, she thought it'd just be us.”

“It will be. Neither of us will disturb you. And if it's Sherlock's unpredictability that you're worried about, he's not given to sleepwalking or midnight snacks.”

Harry was looking at the floor, brow furrowed, as if something had distracted her.

John touched her cheek. “Harry?”

“I didn't mean it that way,” she said. “What I said at yours. About the hand.”

 _Oh_ , John thought. _Shit_.

“I wasn't trying to start anything,” she went on. “I just thought maybe you'd be used to...you know, by now, but...no. I know you aren't. I shouldn't even have teased you. Listen, if that stuff gives you flashbacks, you ought to tell him. I might think it's interesting, bits of anatomy in the fridge and all, funny, I always _did_ like science―”

“Harry,” John murmured. “Harry, _look_ at me.”

She did. Tears again. God, but they were broken, weren't they?

“You hurt me,” John said, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “But I hurt you, too.”

“I'm no good at this,” Harry choked, and there she was, on his shoulder again, clinging to him, always without warning and fragile, so _very_ fragile, or did she only look it?

“I'd say let's put it all behind us, but it's not that easy, is it?”

“Why isn't it? I don't want to have to repeat the things I said to you, even for purposes of facing up to how stupid I was. I don't even want to _allude_ to them.”

John couldn't help grinning against her hair. “You just did.”

“Oh, fuck you,” sobbed Harry, affectionately, driving one fist half-heartedly into his shoulder. “Get out of here. Your smug, gorgeous bastard is waiting.”

“Don't sit up for too long,” said John, squeezing her before they drew apart. “You need some rest.” _And if Clara's had a long day, she may not come_. He didn't have to say it.

Harry nodded, returning his glance, understanding.

“Good night, John,” she said, and went back to the dishes.

“I love you,” said John, quietly, and touched her shoulder. “Always have.”

Harry said nothing, brushed the back of his hand with her damp fingers.

* * *

Harry's staircase had never seemed so endless, but John reached the guest-room door all too quickly. He stood still for a moment, listening for movement within. Soft rustling, the occasional mattress-creak. He imagined Sherlock stretched out on it, shirt untucked and socks abandoned, all long, sprawling limbs and restless energy. Although if the damned cats were in there, too, he'd throw something.

John opened the door a fraction, reminding himself to breathe.

Sherlock was alone on the bed, sat up against the headboard, busy with John's iPhone. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of pale chest, but otherwise, he still had his socks on, and the cats were nowhere in sight.

“I put them in Harry's room and shut the door,” Sherlock said, looking up. “That won't be a problem, will it? I assume they sleep with her.”

“They do,” John said. “She keeps the litter-box in her private bathroom.”

“So I'd noticed,” Sherlock said. He made a deliberate show of turning the iPhone off and setting it aside on the night-stand. “Are you tired?”

Such a direct, honest question. No motive in it at all, not that John could detect. Still, it turned his insides to liquid and made his left hand twitch. He wanted to touch that tempting expanse of flesh, he _wanted_ ―

“I'm going to shower,” said John. “Won't be long. Take whatever side you want.”

Sherlock nodded and kicked down the covers. 

“Wall. Sometimes you require an escape route.”

 _There's nothing he doesn't know, nothing he doesn't love_ , John thought, limping slightly as he crossed the hall to the bathroom. _He's been waiting for me to catch up for far longer than he'll ever let on_.

John shed his clothes quickly and stepped into the shower, shivering. Unlike most houses, Harry's was air-conditioned, and given the weather, she had it cranked up full-blast. It took some fiddling with the complicated controls before John managed to get the water to both the strength (merciless) and the temperature (just shy of scalding) that he wanted. John closed his eyes and turned his face directly up into the spray. Braced himself against the tiled wall with both hands when his leg began to protest the fact that he'd been standing for too long.

There was a sudden rush of cool air, followed by the shower door slamming shut. 

He hadn't heard it open, and before he could turn and properly respond, Sherlock had taken hold of his wrists and brought his arms down to wrap around himself even as Sherlock wrapped _his_ long arms around John, shivering fiercely. He was as naked as John and already hard, pressed slickly up against John's back.

“You're avoiding me,” he said, his breath a puff of steam against the shell of John's ear. “What was it you said about avoidance?”

John's mind was blank. All he could do was lace his fingers tightly with Sherlock's and try to breathe through an almost painful pang of arousal.

“Not good,” John managed.

He felt Sherlock nod and knew he couldn't breathe for the very same reason.

“Tell me that you don't want this, and I'll leave,” Sherlock whispered. “Tell me―”

Awkwardly, John loosened his cramped fingers and unwound himself from Sherlock's embrace. His leg wasn't holding up terribly well, but he managed to spin them around so that Sherlock was under the spray now, gasping at the heat of it, and while his eyes were closed, John reached up and brushed the curls back from his forehead.

“I can't,” John told him, seeking out Sherlock's ribs. He hadn't re-examined them since Bart's, hadn't known for sure if they'd mended properly or not. Sherlock didn't gasp or cry out when John applied some pressure, but he kept his eyes tightly shut.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, taking one of those shuddering breaths that had haunted John ever since the pool. His hands twitched, as if he couldn't bear the separation.

“Because I would be lying,” John said, stepping in close, winding both arms around Sherlock's waist. The contact was almost too much, shock of bare skin and unashamed wanting. “I've never lied to you, if you can believe that, and I don't want to start now.”

Sherlock made a soft, choking sound and, eyes slitted against the downpour, caught John's mouth in a bruising kiss. Thrilling, how possessive he was when driven to it.

They'd _both_ been driven to it, John realized, and the water was everywhere, oh, _everywhere_ , and Sherlock was clinging to him for dear life and now he'd _never_ ―

“Careful,” Sherlock said, catching John close as his legs gave way, before he could fall. Braced him against the wall, kissed him like a man starved for air. “John...”

Sherlock pressed wet, feverish kisses to the side of John's neck, one hand grasping John's hipbone so hard it hurt. His other arm was still wrapped around John, supporting him, his fingers digging into John's shoulder blade.

“Lift me,” said John, finding his voice rough. He hooked one leg around the back of Sherlock's thigh, hoping he'd get the message. “I'll collapse again otherwise.”

Sherlock jerked against him with a whimper and did as he was told, hooking his arms under John's knees. Unbelievable, how strong he was, and _God_ , what a turn-on. John kissed him greedily, in a haze of fragmentary thought and unabashed desire― _never knew, oh fucking hell this is amazing, couldn't possibly have guessed_. He must have mumbled some of it aloud between kisses, because Sherlock was responding with gasps and shudders, his teeth sunk into John's lower lip.

“ _Good_ ,” John breathed, and then, “oh good _God_.”

Half a dozen taut thrusts and Sherlock moaned low and ragged in his ear, sound echoing off the tiles around them. John writhed against him, so close, so _unbelievably_ close, but Sherlock was the one collapsing now and it was anybody's guess how they ended up on the floor of the shower without any major injuries. Somewhat recovered, but not really―eyes hazy, disbelieving, as if even his powers of deduction couldn't convince him that this was really happening―Sherlock rolled John onto his back and wasted no time in kissing his way down to John's belly, nuzzling blindly under the spray (the water pelted them still, relentless) until he'd found John's cock.

Everything went white and very, _very_ hot. John shut his eyes and groaned.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock murmured, tasting John as if he were some rare delicacy. “ _I_ can lie down in here, for crying out loud.”

“I'm more interested in―what else you can do in here, fuck, _fuck_ , Sherlock―”

“Not the best of ideas, given your condition,” said Sherlock, wryly, “but I'll consider it.” He took in as much of John as he was able, sucking ruthlessly. Splayed his long fingers over John's hipbones, only gently now, no longer so urgent, curled them around and under his backside, _coaxing_...

John didn't know how long it took for his senses to return to him, but even when he was aware that Sherlock was bent over him now, kissing him lightly on the cheek, nose, chin, lips, shielding him from the shower's ever-present onslaught, he couldn't stop shaking, couldn't find the coordination to wrap his arms around his colleague-friend-flatmate-lover, much less _say_ something.

“Sit up,” Sherlock said, tugging at his shoulders. “I'll wash your hair.”

John leaned back against Sherlock and sighed. Sherlock could do whatever he wanted from there on out as far as John was concerned, up to and including washing the rest of him (those _hands_ , Christ), although he desperately hoped that Harry was either still downstairs or not paying much attention if she'd come up to hide in her office.

If she'd heard even so much as a peep, John was sure he'd never hear the end of it.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock said, brushing some suds away from John's forehead.

“ _Mmm_ ,” John said, turning his head over his shoulder for a kiss.

* * *

They were almost late to breakfast.

Harry rapped twice on the door around 9:30 AM, which in the Watson family had always been code for _I've made some beans, eggs, and toast, so get up, you lazy creature_. What she didn't realize―or no, wait, she probably did―was that she'd given John a bit of a shock in the middle of an _unbelievable_ snog, except Sherlock was coming all over John's hand a few seconds later, so it was all fine, it _really_ was. 

Sherlock scarcely had to touch him to return the favor.

“Damn it,” John gasped, slumping back against the pillow. “The sheets.”

“Mycroft will buy her new ones,” Sherlock reassured him, kissing John's forehead as he got out of bed. “I'm hungry. Is Harry a decent cook?”

“Almost as good as me,” John said, rising. Their clothes were in a pile on the rocking chair on the far side of the room, having been surreptitiously gathered up by Sherlock once he'd helped John back to the room after their...indiscretion the night before. John wasn't sure what else to call it, given they'd done it _in his sister's shower_.

“How's your leg?” Sherlock asked, straightening his collar. Damn him. Even with a few wrinkles in his impeccable clothes, he still managed to look dignified.

John finished buttoning his shirt. “Better. The sleep helped.”

“Grab it while you can,” Sherlock said with a wink, holding the bedroom door for him.

As they trailed into the kitchen, Harry was busy arranging several plates on the table: whole-grain toast cut in neat triangles, an untidy pile of bacon, and an even _more_ untidy pile of scrambled eggs. She'd set out a bowl of fruit and some croissants, too.

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock took a little bit of everything.

“You look well rested,” Harry said, her first words to either of them. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, no milk, two sugars,” said Sherlock, sampling the bacon. “I am, thank you.”

“That leaves you,” Harry said, turning to John. She made sure her back was to Sherlock before she winked at him. “What'll it be?”

“Coffee,” said John, just to be contrary. He wanted to stick his tongue out at her.

“If you haven't stripped the bed, make sure you do that,” Harry said mildly.

“Yes, Mum,” John sighed, helping himself to the eggs.

Sherlock was smirking at him over a bite of toast.

“Clara's coming for lunch. If you two aren't busy, she'd love to meet Sherlock.”

“I think that can be arranged,” John said, satisfied at how Sherlock's look transformed from amused to irritated. “If you think we're presentable enough, that is. I haven't got any more clothes stashed here, I'm afraid, and certainly none that would fit Sherlock.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Harry said. “She won't know you wore those yesterday.”

“Get John a new jumper,” Sherlock suggested. “The old one has a few holes.”

Harry stared at him. “Don't tell me you're still wearing that ratty old thing.”

“I'm still wearing that ratty old thing,” said John, stubbornly lifting his chin.

“It's comfortable, granted,” said Sherlock, scooping some eggs onto his croissant.

“What have you done to it?” John demanded. “Taken another wool sample?”

“I'm merely observing that you wouldn't wear it so often if it weren't comfortable.”

“Vandal. I hope you know your way around a needle and thread.”

Harry carried two mugs over to the table and set one in front of each of them.

“I'll get him a new one,” she reassured Sherlock. “Do what you want to the old one.”

“No, he can't,” John insisted, wrapping both hands around his coffee. It was too early to be having a conversation that made this little sense. Then again, he felt at home.

“Not even wear it?” asked Sherlock, lips quirked between jesting and seriousness.

“Your arms are too long. I won't have you stretching it out.”

Harry was already at the sink, washing out the French press, trying to pretend that she wasn't laughing. Whatever the damage, it was already done: that weekend would haunt John for a long time to come. Fortunately, he suspected it would haunt him in the best way possible. John carried his empty plate over to the sink.

“Go sit down,” he said, elbowing Harry out of the way. “Have some tea.”

“Pushy,” muttered Harry, but good-naturedly, and did as she was told.

Along with John's plate, there was an empty wine glass in the sink. Perhaps Harry had wanted him to see it, to let him know she just couldn't help it sometimes. John sighed and filled it with water, watched the swirl of deep garnet spill up and over. 

He found that he liked listening to Sherlock and Harry. Aside from being united in the hobby of traumatizing John, they seemed to have the capacity to surprise each other consistently. _Is that what I'm doing here?_ John thought. _As with her, Sherlock can't immediately see through me, and he loves the challenge as much as anything else?_

“One moment,” Sherlock said, rising, plate and fork rattling. He came up behind John, reached around to deposit them in the sink. Slipped an arm around John's waist, leaned down and kissed his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Text message,” he said. “I'll be in the sitting-room.”

John sighed and stared out the window at Harry's front garden, at the wrought-iron gate, at the roses and irises blooming. He wondered if he'd be able to persuade Mrs. Hudson to let him keep an herb patch next to her hellebores come spring, and if Sherlock would have any use for a plot of ground that wasn't completely macabre.

All that John could see reflected in the glass was Harry's smile. His. _Theirs_.


	2. World Without End

**14 November 2010**

The Fusiliers aren't John's regiment, but a mate of his, Stephen, is one of theirs and has been employed, ever since his own discharge, as a Yeoman Warder at the Tower. 

He'd been surprised to get the phone-call, not least because he hadn't seen Stephen since before he'd been deployed. They'd gone in slightly different directions: Stephen had done three tours as a medic in Iraq, his third having been cut short by the injury that sent him home (worse than John's, even: he'd lost his right leg from the knee down to a roadside bomb while patching a comrade, who hadn't survived).

This information, John had got on the phone. He'd listened quietly up till the invitation.

“There's a service on Sunday at St. Peter ad Vincula,” Stephen had said, sounding surprisingly cheerful given the dismal catch-up monologue he'd just delivered. “I've got to help with crowd-control, though heaven knows there won't be many people. It's a tiny parish. The Chapel holds a hundred, maybe, but that's on a good day with some standing at the back. Thought you might like to come 'round.”

John had cleared his throat. “I can't recall the last time I set foot in a church.”

“I'd like to see you,” Stephen had gone on. “Old times' sake and all that. If it helps, bring a plus-one. I'll just need the name in advance, by which I mean right now, as I'll have to arrange for passes with your names on to be left with security.”

John hadn't been to the Tower in ages, but what he remembers most is the extortionate admission fee. It might be a decent lark, getting in for nothing and having a poke about after the service. He gives Stephen his guest's name without hesitation, and if Stephen is confused, he doesn't show it. It's innocuous enough, bringing a mate, but this is different. What Stephen doesn't know, he'll likely guess on the day.

“Right, then,” Stephen had replied. “I thought maybe you'd bring your sister.”

“She's busy,” John had said, which was true enough. “Patching up the marriage.”

“That's great. News of healing's hard to come by. See you soon.”

John had lingered on his mobile for several minutes afterward, listening to silence shot through with ominous static. Now, it's Sunday morning, and Sherlock is trudging along beside him through the grey drizzle as if he's being led along the Thames Path for execution instead of attendance at a Remembrance service.

“I told you,” John says, for what feels like the hundredth time, “if you'd stayed home, I wouldn't have blamed you.” Over the railing and out across the water, some cormorants are making an ungodly racket from their perch on some rotting wooden pylons. What sounds like sung chant in Latin echoes eerily from a church downriver, shot through with pealing bells and soft, persistent rainfall.

“No, but you would have resented me,” Sherlock says, flashing John a crooked smile.

“Maybe just a little,” admits John, good-naturedly. They're alone on the walkway, and a strange sense of intimacy pervades their surroundings. He's just about to take Sherlock's arm when Sherlock's hand closes around his wrist, his long, chilly fingers sliding downward to tangle with John's. “Where are your gloves?"

“At home,” says Sherlock. His head is turned, so John can't see his expression. He's probably scowling, trying to determine the chant's precise location.

When they finally emerge from the river-walk and re-enter the land of the living (fitting, John thinks, to have felt as if they were mist-bound wraiths for a time), Sherlock insists on a detour to the nearby Starbucks for purposes of procuring coffee. John waits outside with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching Tower-bound tourists with Tube-map and tartan umbrellas amble by.

Sherlock emerges ten minutes later with two cups and hands one to John.

“It's that chai thing you like,” he says vaguely. 

As per usual, Sherlock has forgotten to tell them to add vanilla, but that's all right. The heat against John's palms and the bite of spice at the back of his throat are bracing. Sherlock's chewing on the plastic rim of his cup's lid as they continue up towards the main entrance to the Tower. Rarely a good sign.

“It's not too late,” John tells him as they pass the ticket-queues. “You can just as easily wait out here with the pigeons and hordes of obnoxious French schoolchildren.” He takes their half-empty cups over to the nearest bin while Sherlock continues on.

“I'll take my chances with the church-mice and poppy-sporting pensioners, thank you,” Sherlock mutters, striding ahead of John. “You're angling us in the wrong direction. The office you're looking for is this way, down in that picturesque little cottage. See?”

John adjusts the paper flower at his lapel and holds his tongue, allowing Sherlock to hold the door for him. The security office is dry and comfortable inside, a brief respite from the biting chill. John gives their names to the officer on duty and can hear Sherlock fiddling with his mobile behind him. A text from Mycroft, perhaps.

“Holmes and Watson,” says the officer, holding up two printed labels. “That you?”

“Yes,” John says, peeling off his own and affixing it to his other lapel. “Thanks.”

Sherlock stares at his own pass morosely on the way out, until John snatches it away from him, peels it off the wax paper, and slaps it on his coat, deliberately askew.

“Haven't been here in ages,” John says, ignoring the slight, queasy tightness in his chest. “I came with Harry and Clara just before I shipped out. Clara wanted to see the Crown Jewels. She teared up watching that video of the Coronation.”

Sherlock's lips twist in distaste. “Mycroft is obscenely fond of this place. Enough said.”

A few Warders nod at their passes, and they're allowed to pass through, slipping easily by the tables set up for bag-inspections. Amid the bustle, a tourist's camera clatters to the damp cobblestones. John takes a moment to fetch it.

They pass the White Tower, austere in its half-shroud of scaffolding. John would like to see the ravens afterward, lazy wing-clipped creatures though they are, and wonders if Henry's armor and accoutrements are still on loan from Leeds. He'd heard about the exhibition in an expired newspaper. By now, they've probably missed it.

“The Chapel Royal,” says Sherlock, pointing. “This way. You're distracted.”

“I'm wondering about the exhibitions,” John says. As they pass the Jewel House, he can't help but think of Clara and Harry. He feels vaguely guilty about not having brought his sister, but there's nothing for it now. If he'd brought her—

“No,” Sherlock replies, leading him by the elbow. “You're feeling guilty about not having brought Harry. Why on earth should I have come between you and family?”

“Because you _are_ family,” snaps John, and, _good_ , it shuts his plus-one right up.

They're greeted by a Warder—not Stephen, much to John's disappointment—and told they've got to wait out front for a little while. The Chapel's entrance is surrounded by a cluster of pensioners (John shoves Sherlock's remark out of his mind, though he now finds it much-needed comic relief) and a few young couples, mostly cadets with their wives and girlfriends. One of the young couples, a husband and wife both in full dress uniform, pass a fussy toddler back and forth between them.

John can't help but wonder if the small girl will lose one of them before she's grown.

“Stop,” says Sherlock, firmly, his fingertips a cool, brief pressure at John's wrist.

At length, they're finally permitted to enter. 

Stephen's stationed at the door, just inside, and he gives John's hand a firm, silent shake as they file past. The rows of wooden chairs are only a third full, a few of the couples, both young and old, scattered throughout. A short-haired young woman in a black coat sits alone next to the iron railing surrounding a deteriorating medieval tomb, her pale face and wary eyes downcast. They settle into the row behind her.

 _There, Sherlock,_ John thinks. _You're not alone in wishing you were somewhere else_. 

The Chapel fills quickly, although, as Stephen had predicted, not to capacity. Even as the choir files into place and the chaplain calls the service to order, there are a few pockets of empty seats scattered throughout. The toddler, several rows ahead of them with her parents, fusses plaintively, and two or three other children, unseen, chatter and scamper about at the back. They're comforting, somehow, these signs of life underpinning the somber occasion. The choir's opening psalm is bright, atonal, and modern. Beside John, Sherlock tenses at a particularly strident chord.

While the rest of them rise to sing the first hymn, Sherlock stubbornly remains in his seat. As long as he's singing with a group, John tends not to feel self-conscious. The middle-aged lady to Sherlock's right drowns out the rest of the row anyway, although the young woman in front of them has a startling, clear soprano that throws the hatted matron's off-key alto into sharp relief. Briefly, Sherlock smirks at the floor.

John's hand is shaking ever so slightly by the time the organ fades to nothing and they all resume their seats. Sherlock tilts his head in John's direction, questioning, but John resolutely keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead as the chaplain announces the laying of the wreaths. On the high altar, there's a sort of small tree fashioned of fresh pine greens and a myriad tiny red paper flowers. Inescapable.

John closes his eyes and, in the long minutes of silence as the men process up the aisle with their fragile, feather-light burdens, smells blood and sand and biting desert wind commingled. He can't summon the churned earth of those fields across the Channel, although everyone else around him must do, surely, their minds and hands steady in remembrance of a world now gone to dust and seed and blooming.

He only realizes that Sherlock had been holding his hand still once those comforting fingers withdraw, once the music flares to life again and they're all on their feet for the Lord's Prayer, Sherlock included. The young woman in front of them seems steadier, having been joined by her partner, one of the men who'd lain a wreath.

 _As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,_ the choir sings, less strident now, reverent and hushed, melodic. Sherlock stands with his eyes closed. 

_World without end, amen._

There are the inevitable sung psalms, of course, and scriptural lessons read by members of the congregation. It's easy to forget that this is a normal parish church, and that many of those in attendance have been regulars for years. And the sermon is inevitable, too, the part where the chaplain quotes lines of poetry they've all heard far too many times. The children grow restless, and so does Sherlock: squirming in his seat at what he must find a gross misuse of Wilfred Owen, tensing in marked offense at the assertion that these innumerable battlefield losses suffered down through the decades seem less senseless when viewed through the lens of Christ's passion.

It's John's turn to take Sherlock's hand, to settle him, if he can, with a touch. 

He can't make him understand that these words mean comfort to most of the people around them, but he _can_ convey, at least, that although he, too, finds the parallel somewhat ludicrous, it's not invalid. John hasn't considered himself a believer in quite some time, but today—with Sherlock standing here beside him, loving him against sense and reason—he's content to at least try. After all, he'd made it home alive.

Somehow, they make it through to the end, _God Save the Queen_ and the closing hymn and recessional, without Sherlock making derisive comments under his breath. John feels drained as he rises, but, more than anything, he's proud. Proud of _what_ , exactly, he can't say—of the fact they'd got through it, maybe, and of everyone present.

The rest of their row is empty, but Sherlock can't move forward because Stephen's standing in front of him, puzzled, pleased, and dressed in that ridiculous red uniform. He peers around Sherlock's shoulder and smiles at John. Sherlock turns his head and gives John a look that suggests, as usual, that his taste in friends is wanting.

“You're the new flatmate, then?” Stephen asks, turning back to Sherlock.

“This is Sherlock,” John tells him before Sherlock can say something regrettable.

“News travels fast,” says Sherlock, impressively staid as he shakes Stephen's hand. “You're acquainted with Mike Stamford, I presume?”

“Yeah, he gets around, does Mike,” Stephen replies. “It's good to see you, John.”

“Same,” John says, although it's all very awkward because Sherlock's a solid, imposing barrier between them, and the space between rows of chairs is cramped to begin with. “Looks like the new job's treating you well.” _As is the prosthetic limb_.

“Dressed to kill,” Sherlock says, _sotto voce_. There's no way Stephen hasn't heard.

Instead of having taken offense, he's laughing, the sound welcome and unexpected.

“I know,” says Stephen. “It's like Father Christmas gone a bit wrong.”

“More than a bit,” John says. “Anyway, are you free for a pint?”

Sherlock's abruptly pinched posture suggests that he's averse to the idea.

“No, mate, sorry,” Stephen says. “On duty for the rest of the day. Next weekend?”

“Sure,” John responds, relieved. “Well, you've got my number.”

“Thanks to Mike, no doubt,” says Sherlock, dryly, responding to a text.

“That'll be the one,” Stephen replies. “Pleasure meeting you.”

“I'm sure,” Sherlock says, impatient. “If you don't mind—?”

Stephen grins and backs out of the row. “Off with you! Thanks for coming today,” he says, giving John a perplexed, yet approving wink as he walks past. “Means a lot.”

“Yes,” John agrees as he dashes to catch up with Sherlock. “It does.”

They follow the Thames Path back to London Bridge station, although not without delay, as, just beyond the pylons and the cormorants, Sherlock backs John up against the concrete wall and kisses him within an inch of suffocation. John fists his hands in Sherlock's coat and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in raindrops and the unceasing sound of bells and Sherlock's windblown scent through his nostrils. 

John knows that, once they're home, they won't make it past the sofa, won't even talk about the day's events, that Sherlock will strip them both half-naked and pull John down into his lap and that it will be over very quickly, that they'll curl into each other in the narrow space that's only intended for one body and sleep until early evening.

 _World without end_ , John thinks, reluctantly easing them apart. _Amen_.

They don't speak all the way back to the taxi queue, but they do walk hand in hand.


	3. Attached

It's a shit restaurant, which is enough to irritate John right from the start. He should have known better than to let Harry have her pick of Chinatown for their monthly meet-up. She's oblivious to the fact that most places on the main drag are charging inflated prices, the food mediocre at best and horrifying at worst. To top it all off, his starter arrives late. Harry's halfway through her dumplings just as he's appraising whether or not the slap-dash scallops in front of him are edible or not.

“Those look nice,” says Harry, with her mouth full. “Can I try one?”

“Piss off,” John tells her, and scoops a scallop into his mouth using chopsticks, determined to show Harry up. When he's with Sherlock, he uses silverware.

The taste is all wrong: rubbery and bitter.

“Bad scallop?” Harry sympathizes. “There are few things worse.”

“Good to know the actual _taste_ of food matters to you now,” John says, shoving the plate at her. “They're all yours, but they might make you wish you had a drink.”

“Thanks, but no,” Harry replies, pushing it back. “You should've seen your face.”

“Was it the one where he looks like he's sucking on an invisible straw?”

They both look up to find Sherlock looming over them. He offers Harry a curt, comical wave and pulls out the chair next to John without so much as a by-your-leave, loosening his scarf. He reaches for John's untouched fork, skewers one of the scallops, and sniffs it. He takes a miniscule bite and considers it carefully as he chews.

“Contaminated,” he says. “With what, I'm not sure.” He waves down the waiter and points to the scallops. “Can we have these wrapped for take-away? You're a star.”

John opens his mouth to ask why, and then shuts it, because Harry's just opened hers.

“Run out of stuff to slice up and dye blue back at the flat, have you?”

“Don't be stupid,” Sherlock tells her. “In this case, dye will hardly be necessary.”

“Excuse _me_ ,” Harry says, and then turns to John. “I thought you said you'd lost him.”

“That was last night,” John says. “He has a way of coming back. Regular boomerang.”

Sherlock heaves a put-upon sigh and stretches one long arm across the back of John's chair, sprawling so that his feet are sure to get in Harry's way under the table.

“Your metaphor is juvenile,” he says. “And I'm hungry.”

“You've conned my brother into cooking, haven't you?” Harry asks, grinning.

“When we're not eating out, yes,” says Sherlock, matter-of-factly.

“Only a few times a week,” John protests. “And I'd hardly call it cooking.”

“Ah, young love,” Harry says. “What's he do best?”

“Not cooking,” Sherlock says, and his shoe taps John's under the table.

John feels a flush creep up his neck. “Cleaning,” he mutters, “with which I could occasionally use some help, contrary to popular belief.”

Harry is giving them the same starry-eyed look she'd given John when he'd brought home his first girlfriend. Bad enough, that they'd wrecked her guest-room sheets.

“Mum never had to nag him about his bedroom,” she sighs. “So tidy.”

“How happy for her,” Sherlock says, reaching for the teapot to refill John's empty cup. “Once your food's arrived, can we get that wrapped, too, and go home? I'm tired.”

“I thought you said you were hungry,” John reminded him, studying an odd, dark stain on the hem of Sherlock's scarf. “Just where did you get off to, anyway?”

“Edgeware Road,” Sherlock replies. “The chase ended in a useless stake-out. Our suspect is a butterfly hobbyist, not a bird watcher. There's always something. And I _am_ hungry. We'll order something else to go along with whatever you're having.”

“And the bad scallops,” says Harry, just shy of bursting into laughter.

“Excellent, you've caught up,” Sherlock snaps, and then waves down the waiter again. “Separate tabs, please, and would you add an order of sweet and sour calamari to the one with the scallops, egg fried rice, and Hoi Sin duck? No, the tea goes on _hers_.”

“He's developed some manners,” Harry says to John. “Is that your doing?”

“No,” Sherlock yawns, making himself comfortable against John's shoulder.

John sighs, certain that Sherlock's concealing a wound. “Can we reschedule?”

“No,” murmurs Sherlock, drowsily. He nuzzles closer.

“You're too cute for words,” Harry says. “Get out of here. I'll pick up the tab.”

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock insists, his lips tickling John's collarbone. John slips an arm around his waist and gathers him in so he's not about to fall off his chair. Harry is smirking.

“Not another word,” John warns her, and kisses Sherlock's temple. He's fast asleep.


End file.
